Dragon Aspect
by lioness84
Summary: <html><head></head>She did it for Aventus. At least that was what she told herself, and in the beginning, it might have even been true. But a dragon's will to dominate cannot be denied, and as the lines between heroes and villains blur, Monica Aretino fights to control her true nature…or else be consumed by it.</html>
1. Prologue: Voth Ahkrin

A/N: Hello! This is a story I started a while back, but didn't really have the time to devote to it...until now. This is just a quick, flash-forward prologue, so it'll jump back in time before proceeding normally. Hope you enjoy it!

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><p>Dragon Aspect<p>

Prologue: Voth Ahkrin

She willed herself to wake, cracking open bleary eyes and fighting to take in her surroundings. Her bones jarred against each other in time with the throbbing in her skull, and as the fog in her head began to lift, she made out the rhythm of hoofbeats. And then the fog burned away in a searing blast of clarity, as every memory from the past several days came rushing back in.

Her heart had somehow become lodged in her throat, displaced by crushing weight now filling her chest. The blond soldier across from her was speaking—to her, she presumed, by the way he had shifted forward, his eyes locking on to hers—but she only saw his mouth moving, his words drowned out by the roaring in her ears. She quickly looked away, forcing her gaze downward into her lap. The sight of her bound hands sent a hand of panic to her throat, so instead she stared intently at her knees, memorizing every dirt stain, every frayed thread.

As her breathing settled into some semblance of a rhythm, she began to slowly take note of the surrounding spectacle. A now-green forest and a downward slope—they were descending the mountain. Legion armor, flashes of Imperial crimson—the Empire had taken charge. More wagons ahead of this one—all filled with patches of familiar blue. A quick glance back to the blond soldier confirmed it—they were all now prisoners. Only she wasn't free.

The irony of the situation wasn't lost on her. Of course, though, she thought bitterly to herself. The Empire was thorough to a fault. They would have snapped up everyone in the camp—stopping to ask questions would have given the enemy the advantage. And any Legionnaire worth their salt would rather die than do so.

In one of her quick glances upward, she noted that another occupant of the wagon lacked the Stormcloak uniform. She lifted her head, thinking she'd found a friendly face—but no. This one was pale-skinned, with short, dark hair. She dropped her head again, but began gradually tuning into the conversation as the civilian stranger argued with the blond soldier. The stranger was mocking some other occupant of their wagon, but the blood froze in her veins at the soldier's reply. "Watch your tongue. You're speaking to Ulfric Stormcloak, the true High King."

She went still, every muscle freezing in place. Her heart dropped back into place and began thudding out a frantic rhythm that blurred together into one single note of terror. _No. Not him. _She turned her head very slightly to the right, just a little further…and there. Ulfric Stormcloak sat just two places down from her.

Her head snapped back into place, and she once again forced her stare to her knees. Had he seen her? Oh Divines, don't let him have seen her. She was starting to perspire, and for a moment, she wildly considered the risks of hurling herself over the side of the wagon. But as she surveyed the mountain slope, she caught sight of something else through the trees.

Town walls rose up before them, and as they rounded a bend in the road, she could see the other wagons rolling through the gates. "Ah, Helgen," the soldier remarked as they rolled through. "I used to be sweet on a girl from here." His tone was relaxed—lazy, even. "And look, there's General Tullius, the military governor. And it looks like the Thalmor are with him." His tone soured. "Damn elves. I bet they had something to do with this."

Despite the fact that she was still plastered in the corner in hopes that Ulfric hadn't noticed her, she lifted her head again at the mention of General Tullius. Over the soldier's shoulder, there was an officer that could only be him, flanked by several imposing, golden-skinned figures clothed in black. "The Thalmor?" The alarm in the thief's voice was clear. "Then…"

As if on cue, an Imperial soldier called out as they rolled past. "General Tullius, sir! The headsman is waiting." The general gave a wave of acknowledgment, and the thief truly began to panic.

"Oh gods, no, this can't be happening. This isn't happening." It _was_ happening, though, and the quiet knowledge silently dawned on her. But instead of fear, a shiver of dark mirth ran along her spine. She would die today—but Ulfric would die along with her. And that thought alone was enough to settle her breathing and slow her heart, to square her shoulders as the wagons rolled to a stop.

"Shor. Mara. Dibella, Kynareth, Akatosh—Divines, please help me!" the thief cried frantically. "We're not rebels!" As they stiffly lurched to their feet and shuffled off the end of the wagon, the soldier snapped a retort.

"Face your death with some courage, thief!"

How had this happened? How had she ended up here, facing an gruesome death alongside criminals and rebels? But as she slipped from the back of the wagon, wincing at the impact, she knew she had her answer. This was all her fault, she thought dizzily. She'd done this to herself. One small, seemingly-inconsequential choice, and she'd been set on this path.

She stared at the ground, her ears ringing as the guards began to call out the names of the rebels. If only she could go back, she thought, her dying wish echoing off the walls of her skull, unspoken. Back before the moment she'd made her choice. Before she'd left Cyrodiil. Before that day, nearly a month ago; the day the courier had come up the road…


	2. Chapter 1: The Spring Snows Have Melted

A/N: Here's the first "official" chapter. Like I said, this will jump back in time about a month before the opening scene, and will proceed normally from here on out. We have several more chapters and a lot of action until we reach Helgen again, but when we do, I'll try to keep it as brief and interesting as possible. Enjoy!

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><p>Chapter 1: The Spring Snows Have Melted<p>

When serving under nobles, there was one important rule to remember: _keep them happy_. And when keeping them happy meant spending an afternoon outside the walls under a beautiful summer sky, Monica was more than willing to oblige. Even if the excursion was doomed to be entirely unproductive.

The golden grass crunched under her feet as she wandered forward, heading toward a brightly-colored clump of wildflowers. Quickly plucking a few stalks, she scraped at them with a fingernail, only for them to merely crumble away. She sighed, but tossed them into her basket just the same. She'd known her search would yield no results, but her mother had still insisted on it. "Just make an _effort_," she'd hissed as they parted ways that morning. And Monica had done just that, too excited by the prospect of a day spent out in the sun to protest.

It had all started back in the winter, when her aunt's New Life gift had arrived: a silk ribbon, imported from Alinor. She hadn't given it a second thought when she'd tied it in her hair before rushing off to the feast—but the moment she'd walked into the dining hall, Lady Adlen had descended on her.

After she'd spent a good ten minutes fawning over the color of the ribbon, she had wheeled on Monica's mother and demanded a dress of the same material. And after being informed that importing enough of the fabric for a dress into Cyrodiil would be nigh on impossible, she had instead demanded that a dye of the same color be created.

And so for the past six months, Monica had lain awake at night, kept up by the sounds of her mother cursing from her laboratory as she struggled to brew the perfect formula. But none of her results had even come close, and Lady Adlen was only growing more impatient. When the lady had pointed out the window and shouted that _surely_ there was some mystery plant growing out there that could yield the shade she wanted, her head seamstress had simply sighed, pushed a basket into her daughter's hands, and with a pointed look, silently reminded her of the cardinal rule of working under nobles. And Monica had gleefully fled, scarcely able to believe her luck.

But that had been hours ago. The afternoon sun was blazing, and her dress was soaked with sweat under the arms and down the back. Setting the basket down with a weary sigh, she stretched her arms over her head, feeling her spine pop as she did so. Glancing down, she considered the contents of the basket. Along with the dead wildflowers, she'd also picked up a few flax plants. She was fairly certain her mother had already been unsuccessful with using flax in a dye, but these were a similar shade to what Lady Adlen was looking for, so she'd picked them up anyway. Maybe her mother could figure out some way to make them work. Hoisting up the basket again, she turned and began trudging toward the road. She'd poke around on the east side for a bit and then call it a day.

"Excuse me!" The unexpected voice jolted her from her thoughts, sending her head snapping toward the road. The sweaty man was breathing heavily, hunched over with his hands planted on his knees—an unthreatening posture, but her hackles still rose. Nobody ever came this far up the road. Not like this, alone and on foot. She gripped the handle of the basket a little tighter, suddenly wishing she'd thought to bring along a spear or something. "You wouldn't happen to know the way to Battlehorn, would you?"

She approached cautiously, prepared to flee if he made any sudden moves. "Depends," she answered, slowly pronouncing the word. "What's your business there?"

"Got something I'm supposed to deliver." He indicated toward the satchel at his side, and she immediately recognized the courier's insignia. "That fellow back in Chorrol said I'd hit it if I just kept taking the road west, but…" He shrugged. "Is this still that road? I haven't passed it or anything, have I?"

Her initial wariness forgotten, she found herself breaking into a smile. "You're on the right track, but you're not there yet." She pointed up the road behind her. "Just keep going." Her smile widened when his face twisted into a grimace. "You're closer than you think," she reassured. "No more than twenty minutes out."

The courier groaned, but he straightened up, mopping at his forehead. "I'd best be going, then," he sighed. "Thank you." She nodded in acknowledgement, and drifted to the other side of the road as he continued his trek up the hill.

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><p>A couple of hours later, she was following in the courier's footsteps, having absolutely determined that there was nothing on the east side of the road that would be of any use to Lady Adlen. Her feet ached, she could feel the beginnings of a sunburn spreading across her cheeks, and she was dead tired, but she still managed to return the guard's wave as she passed through the gates.<p>

Entering the courtyard, she caught sight of a figure at the forge. Her breath catching in her throat, she immediately altered her course, heading for the stairs up to the battlements. She could enter her family's quarters through the north tower easily enough; it'd be going the long way, but it'd be worth it to avoid certain people. Before her foot even touched the first stair, though, she heard the sound of her name.

"Monica! Hey Monica!" He'd seen her, then. Groaning under her breath, she slowly turned and made her way over to the forge and the young man who was waving eagerly, dragging her feet with every step.

"Heidmir," she greeted. He'd discarded his heavy gloves and rolled up the sleeves of his shirt, the muscles of his forearms rippling as he pushed his sweaty hair back from his forehead.

"How've you been?" His grey eyes sparked with interest as he caught sight of her basket. "Been in the fields today?"

She sighed. "Not exactly," she admitted, rolling her eyes. "Do remember when my aunt sent me that ribbon for New Life?"

"The purple one?" He raised his eyebrows, and she stifled a sigh. Leave it to Heidmir to always remember the most mundane details.

"Yes, well, Lady Adlen has decided she needs a dress the same color," she began, shifting her basket from one arm to the other. The second unspoken rule of serving nobility, of course, was to show them respect at all times, but Heidmir was the one person she could always feel free to break that rule with. "My mother's been working day and night to create a dye for her, but none of them—"

"—Are ever good enough. Of course." He grinned, and her stomach turned over on itself.

"Right, so today I got sent out to hunt for ingredients. Only there's _nothing_ out there." She held up a mass of the wildflowers, and he chuckled at her grimace.

"Poor Lady Adlen. I wonder what she'll do when she finds out what a lost cause this is," he remarked, picking up one of the wildflowers from her basket and twirling it between his fingers.

"Not sure, but I don't want to be around to find out," she said wryly. He smiled, dropping his gaze down to the wildflower he still held, and an awkward silence fell.

"How's your father?" she asked quickly. "I haven't seen him in a while; does he still come up for dinner?"

Heidmir's gaze flickered back up to hers. "Eh, well, his heart's been giving him trouble. You know how that goes." He rolled his eyes, and she smiled ruefully. "Orbul says he needs to rest, so he mainly stays inside. I can tend the forge myself easily enough, and he does more of the finer work. Finishing touches, that sort of thing." He leaned in closer as his tone dropped lower. "He's been pretty down about it, but we've got some news we're telling him tonight that should cheer him up."

"Oh?" She frowned slightly as Heidmir nodded, glancing over his shoulder before leaning forward to whisper in her ear.

"Kirsten's with child," he murmured. Her heart dropped into her stomach as he drew away with a smile, looking exceptionally pleased with himself.

"Oh," she managed faintly. "I see; that's…" She swallowed hard. "That's big news, Heidmir."

"I know." He gave a broad grin. "It was unexpected, but we're thrilled. Kirsten's already picking out names. She thinks it'll be a girl, but I think she's got at least twice as many boy's names on her list," he chuckled.

She was surprised by the spurt of venom that shot through her veins at the mention of his wife. But Heidmir was staring at her, waiting for a response, so she forced aside her resentment. None of this was Kirsten's fault, she reminded herself.

"Congratulations." She smiled. "You'll make a wonderful father."

"I hope so." He laughed, rolling his eyes, but then the merriment faded, and a tiny furrow appeared between his eyes. "You'll keep this to yourself, won't you? It's just that we agreed to keep it quiet, and our parents don't even know yet…" He smiled apologetically, and she felt a faint prickle of annoyance. _Then why did you tell me?_

"Of course," she said, hoisting the basket up higher on her arm. "But I need to get these inside and hung up…"

"Right, of course, I won't keep you." His smile returned. "See you around, Monica. It was nice talking with you."

"You too." As he turned back to the forge, she exhaled the breath she'd been holding and slowly turned in the direction of the keep door. At this point, she reasoned sourly, there was no point in going out of her way.

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><p>Back in her family's quarters, she made her way to her mother's lab. The cool semi-darkness was a relief after the unrelenting inferno of the sun, and she paused for a moment, allowing her eyes to adjust before she began rifling through her mother's desk. She found the string easily enough, deftly wrapping it around the stalks of the specimens and stringing them up along the drying wall. Now to tag them—her mother was meticulous about tagging.<p>

The pre-cut squares of parchment were in their slot in the desk, as were the quills, but she had to hunt for the inkpot before finally finding it in the bergamot stores. Despite her bad humor, she found herself smiling as she returned to the desk. If there were an award for practicing organized chaos, her mother would most certainly be the winner. She began to carefully write out the descriptions of the plants and where they had been found, but in between the scratches of the quill, her ears picked up on another sound.

Frowning, she set aside the quill and stood, making her way over to the doorway. "Hello?" she called cautiously. There was no sign of anyone when she popped her head into the bedroom, but the sound persisted, something similar to a faint sniffling. "Mama?" She tiptoed toward the curtain that portioned off their eating area and, grasping hold of the faded cloth, slowly slid it aside—only to let out a gasp.

There sat her mother, tears streaming from her eyes, a piece of crumpled parchment clutched in her hand. "Mama!" She immediately rushed to her mother's side, fishing a handkerchief out of her pocket. "What is it? What's happened?" She eyed the parchment, but couldn't manage to make out any of the words.

"It's Naalia." Guinevere Aretino took the handkerchief and dabbed at reddened eyes. "She's dead." For a moment, Monica stared at her, unable to comprehend. Then, she felt the blood drain from her face.

"Aunt Naalia?" She sank into the chair across from her mother as she gasped the words out, and Guinevere shakily nodded. "What happened?" she asked quietly.

Guinevere straightened in her chair, glancing down at the parchment in hand. "Typhoid fever. It says she fell ill during the winter and never…" She began to sob again, and Monica sat in silence, her face propped in her hand. She'd only ever met her Aunt Naalia once, but she remembered a gentle, pleasant woman with a smile that could make the entire room glow. Naalia always sent gifts for every New Life and birthday, and she and Guinevere had stayed in contact over the years through letters. Although, now that she thought about, the last contact from Naalia had been around New Life; in fact, she had been the one to send the ribbon that had started Lady Adlen's fixation.

"How did we not know about this until now?" Monica finally asked. Guinevere held up the parchment.

"The courier said it was a harsh winter, and the spring snows blocking the pass only melted about a month back," she answered bleakly. "Besides, there's apparently trouble in the province, and he said all of their deliveries have been terribly backed up…" She trailed off as a new wave of tears appeared, and as she dabbed them away, a cold chill ran down Monica's spine as she realized that she had passed the grim messenger himself on the road.

"But the problem now," Guinevere sniffed into the handkerchief, "the problem is Aventus." Monica frowned as her mother continued. "We're the only family he has now, so that makes us his guardians. Only since we weren't there to take him in…" Monica's eyes widened as she realized the implications, and her hand shot across the table to pick up the letter.

"This is dated First Seed," she said urgently, jabbing a finger at the line bearing the date. "That was four months ago; he's not…he hasn't been…?"

"He's not on the streets, thank the Divines." Guinevere shook her head, pointing to the letter. "He's been sent to an orphanage in the next hold." She sighed. "Poor thing, though. I hate to think of him waiting there, thinking we've abandoned him…"

Monica gave a mummer of sympathy. She'd never met her young cousin, but he had written them several letters over the years, telling stories about his friends, his school, and his pet dog in a direct, childish handwriting. "So what do we do?" she asked. "Hire someone to bring him here?"

Guinevere shook her head. "Mercenaries are expensive, Monica." She stood and crossed over to the cupboard, opening it up and feeling around the inner top of it before pulling something loose. "I have some coin saved, but it's not much." She tossed the coinpurse to her daughter, who grimaced at its meager weight as she hefted it in her hand. "We'll have to go get him ourselves and bring him back here, only…"

"Only?" Monica's eyebrows arched, and her mother carefully sat back down across from her.

"I've been thinking it over all afternoon," she said as she rearranged her skirts, not making eye contact with her daughter. "Lady Adlen…well, she hasn't been exactly pleased with me as of late." Monica grimaced, knowing far too well the extent of the situation. "And on top of it, it's a long journey; there's travel costs and lodging and food…" She threw up her hands in a helpless gesture. "And you see what we have there—that's _all_ of our savings, Monica. It's not just the cost of the trip that worries me. If I'm not working, I'm not making money."

"So what does that mean for Aventus?" Monica frowned, eyes clouding over with worry, and Guinevere finally met her daughter's gaze.

"I need you to go and get him." For a moment, Monica simply sat in silence.

"What? Mama, you can't be serious." She stared across the table at her mother, aghast. "I can't go to Skyrim, I've barely ever left Battlehorn, and I've only been to Chorrol, what, _twice_? And I can't—"

"Monica." Her mother's voice cut her off, and she immediately fell silent. Guinevere was using her serious tone—something Monica hadn't heard since she was in her teens. "I know it's asking a lot, but I _need_ you to do this for me." Monica bit the inside of her lip at Guinevere's earnest expression. Her tone was bordering on pleading, and that made her feel distinctly nervous. "I need you to do it for Aventus."

Monica sighed. Despite the overwhelming notion of travelling across Tamriel on her own, the thought of her little cousin trapped among strangers was unbearable. And besides, she was already feeling haunted by her mother's desperate expression and by the light coinpurse. So even though there was an uncomfortable tightness in her chest, she began to nod.

"All right," she relented. "I'll do it." The look of pure relief that filled Guinevere's puffy eyes nearly made up for the newly-developed anxiety boiling inside her.

"Thank you." Her mother reached across the table to squeeze her hand. "I really do appreciate this."

"How am I going to get there?" she asked, her mind already spinning. If she was doing this—_really_ doing this—she at least needed to know exactly what it would entail. Questions were piling up against each other in her head, and she was already beginning to feel suffocated by them.

"The Pale Pass route would probably be best this time of year," Guinevere answered, propping her elbows on the tabletop. "You can get a carriage from Chorrol to Bruma easily enough, and then I'm sure it will be no trouble to find passage across the border." At Monica's doubtful look, Guinevere smiled faintly. "We'll figure it out. I think Avik was up that way a few years ago; I'm sure he knows what the travel's like. I'll ask around."

Her words were meant to be reassuring, but Monica only felt her apprehension multiply. She'd left County Chorrol only once in her life, and that had been when she was no older than Aventus, safe under the watch of her parents. Setting out on her own was entirely different—not to mention downright terrifying. But she'd pull through it. She had to—for Aventus. They'd figure out the arrangements, she'd follow the plan, and she'd bring Aventus back safe and sound. Everything would work itself out. She would have nothing to worry about.


	3. Chapter 2: Unbroken Road

Chapter 2: Unbroken Road

Several weeks later, Monica stood in front of North Country Stables, her pack of belongings on her back and her heavy woolen cloak over her arm. It wasn't even eight o'clock, but the sun was already scorching, and as time wore on, its rays began to beat down upon the paving stones, sending waves of heat shimmering upward. It would be a downright miserable day to spend in a carriage, bumping along in the dust for hours with no escape from the tyranny of the sun. But unfortunately enough for her, that was her plan for the day.

After weeks of planning, she and Guinevere had finally gotten the arrangements in order. Avik had hitched up one of the older mares and driven her down from Battlehorn that morning, and today she would take a carriage to Bruma. Tomorrow, she would begin the actual journey to Skyrim, a trip that would take her across the Jerall Mountains and end in the Skyrim city of Whiterun. From there, she would go on to a city called Riften, where Honorhall, the orphanage caring for Aventus, was located.

She shifted her cloak from one arm to another, grimacing at the sweat-dampened sleeve of her dress. She'd protested that she didn't need to bring the cloak along, but her mother had insisted that the pass would be cold, even in the summertime. Shielding her eyes from the glare, she turned to gaze at the Jeralls, noting the whiteness at the peaks. Hard to believe that tomorrow, she would be up among them.

She turned her head at the sound of a creaking hinge to see a figure exiting the stables. He headed toward the corral, pausing when he caught sight of her. "Here for the nine o'clock to Bruma?" he asked. At her nod, he smiled. "I'm getting the horses ready now. Shouldn't be too much longer. We may even get an early start." He turned back to the corral, but then paused again. "Oh, and it's a twenty septim fare. Just in case you wanted to go ahead and get that ready."

Her hand immediately flew to her belt, where the coinpurse resided, along with the pouch containing her identification papers and the letter from the steward. She'd been anxiously reaching for them all morning, afraid that they'd somehow been lost—either fallen off or stolen. To her relief, they were still in their place, but she still glanced around nervously as she tugged the coinpurse free. Handling coin always made her nervous—especially out in the open like this and in these amounts—and besides, several other passengers had begun drifting over in her direction. The majority of her mother's life savings glittered back at her when she opened the coinpurse—it would be just enough to cover the costs of the trip, but she had every intention of bringing as much of it back as she could. Travel and inn costs were set in stone, but she was hoping to save on food. She'd raided the kitchen last night, and had managed to cram at least a day or two's worth of provisions into her pack.

"All right, folks!" The driver's voice finally rang out, breaking through her thoughts. "We're all set to get on the road. Please line up in an orderly fashion and have your payment ready as you climb in. Larena here," he indicated toward the burly woman in armor at his side, "will be our guard today."

"The guard's just a precaution," someone muttered as they filed toward the carriage. "Attacks have gone down since drivers stopped carrying the payment with them." Actually, Monica noted as she handed her fare over, touching the coinpurse once again as she took her seat, their danger would be minimal today because it wasn't raiding season. In the height of summer, food was plentiful, but come autumn, bandit tribes would begin stocking up for the winter, and they would be hungry again come spring.

As predicted, the journey was uneventful. She was pleasantly surprised, however, that most of the Orange Road was heavily shaded, making the day far less uncomfortable than anticipated. She had seen the expanse of the Great Forest from the battlements at home, of course, but the distance failed to capture the full scope of it. They stopped around noon to let the horses drink, but the constant jolting motion and being crushed in with the other passengers still wore on her, a fact that was only made worse when they made the turn onto the Silver Road. But as the carriage approached Wildeye Stables, her throbbing head and aching body were quickly forgotten as she stared around in wonder. Everything about the land here was different—colors, textures, flora, smells—and when she glanced to the north, the white peaks of the Jeralls seemed to be looming directly overhead. It suddenly struck her how high up they really were—and just how much further she had to go.

"First time in Bruma?" the elderly woman seated beside her ventured with a smile, which she tentatively returned.

"Yes, ma'am." She glanced around at their surroundings again, then back to the woman. "It's amazing, it's…" She shook her head and the woman chuckled.

"Ah, I remember leaving my home hold for the first time," she laughed. "Of course that was quite a long time ago." For a moment, a flicker of nostalgia drifted across her face. "Are you staying here long?"

Monica shook her head. "Just for the night," she said quickly. "Then I'm off to Skyrim in the morning."

"Ah." The woman nodded. "Not a lot of time to see the sights, then." She squinted up at the sun. "You still have some time to explore, though. I'd recommend saving the Akaviri museum for another time, but the statue of the Champion of Cyrodiil is up by the north gate, and the Chapel of the Eight is right in the center of town." Her voice dropped to a whisper. "Although it used to be the Great Chapel of Talos," she hissed, and Monica cringed at the mention of the false god, although she forced herself to nod politely. The venom that had crept into the woman's otherwise-kindly demeanor also sent a chill down her spine, but then the woman's smile returned as she changed the subject.

"Do you know where you're staying?" she asked, and Monica reached for her belt, where the itinerary Guinevere had written for her was tucked alongside her other papers.

"Elle's Tap and Tack," she read, but the woman frowned.

"Are you dead set on that?" she asked. "For five septims more you could go up the hill to the Three-Eyed Raven. It's rumored to be haunted, if you believe in that sort of thing, but for what it's worth, it's probably your better option. I know Elle, and she's a good woman, but the place caters mostly to mercenary types. It's pretty rough." The woman grimaced. "Actually, the entire south side of the city is rough. I'd stay away from it if I were you." It did sound like a better idea, and five septims more wasn't much, but Guinevere was already twenty septims poorer than she could afford to be.

"I think I'll stick with my plans," Monica said, touching the coinpurse for what was probably the fiftieth time that day, "but thank you. For the advice, and for the recommendations." The carriage had rolled to a stop, and the driver was calling for passengers to disembark.

"Of course, dear," the woman said as they began collecting their belongings. "Enjoy your stay." As she stood, her cloak shifted, and Monica caught sight of a flash of steel at her side. Her eyes widened, her stare following the woman as she hurried over toward a man with a heavy beard shot with silver who was calling her "Ma." She shook her head as she climbed down from the carriage herself, shouldering her pack and joining the throng of other passengers drifting in the direction of the city gates. Less than a day since she left home, and she'd already met a Talos-worshiper—who was also a little old lady toting a massive sword, no less. What a strange place this was.

As soon as she stepped inside the city gates, she once again felt the breath sucked from her lungs. It lacked the quaint, picturesque beauty of Chorrol, but Bruma was downright impressive. Built into the mountainside, it was structured so that several stone tiers ran the length of the city, with the buildings lining the edges. In a way, the imposing stone walls reminded her of home, but the resemblance ended there. The rugged logs that made up the buildings were nothing like Battlehorn's even stone and neat timbers.

According to the maps Guinevere had packed for her, Elle's Tap and Tack was just inside the gates. She spotted it almost immediately, but as she approached, the door was abruptly flung open, and a cluster of figures stumbled out, laughing loudly and clearly drunk. She froze in her tracks, staring at the spectacle the woman in the carriage had warned her about. _Five septims…_ She touched the coinpurse. But then one of the drunks vomited, his friends shouting and hooting louder than ever. Shuddering, she turned and headed up the hill. At this point, the price would be worth it.

The Three-Eyed Raven, according to the map, was on the first ledge, down at the end of the street. But multiple sets of stone stairs providing access to the street below had been cut into the ledge, and she was forced to carefully pick her way around them. She vaguely wondered if that was even safe, thinking of how icy the stairs to the battlements at home got in the winter. But she arrived at the door soon enough, swinging it open on soundless hinges and stepping into the cool dimness.

The publican took her coin and showed her to a spacious room on the lower underground level before pointing her in the direction of the Champion of Cyrodiil's statue. However, as she stood gazing up at the stone likeness, Monica was not particularly impressed by it. It was located on the highest level, overlooking the rooftops of the city. It was the quietest area of the city so far, and she wondered if it was due to the fact that the gates to the castle loomed just down the street. But it wasn't just the eerie desertion—it was the Champion's likeness itself, austere and unyielding as it stared coldly over the city. The unease was sending shivers down her spine, and she nervously backed away, turning south down the street. She'd passed the chapel on her way to the inn, but it couldn't hurt to take a closer look.

But the sense of disquiet that had settled over her didn't fade away as she approached the Chapel of the Eight. Maybe it was due to the surprisingly chilly breeze blowing through the city, or maybe it was the words of the woman from the carriage. _Talos_. She silently repeated the name to herself. The Emperor who had united all of Tamriel, but upon death had been revered as a god, due to mankind's folly and hubris. She had read _The Talos Mistake_ in her lessons a child. Every young person in Battlehorn had. Her parents had simply nodded when she mentioned it, and urged her to finish her homework.

There was something else, though, something prickling at the corners of her memory. She'd been in bed, trying to sleep, but all the while hearing her father's angry voice from the kitchen. There'd been her mother's hushed whispers as she tried to quiet him down, and his voice would drop, only to flare back up again. And during the peaks of the crescendos, she was certain she'd heard the name "Talos."

But it'd been a long time ago. She shook her head as she turned to retreat to the Three-Eyed Raven. She'd been planning on going into the chapel and saying a prayer for safety on her journey, but the sun had nearly disappeared, and it really was downright cold now. She shivered as she skittered along the hazardous street, thinking of the Jeralls' white peaks. Perhaps her mother had been right about the cloak.

* * *

><p>Monica wasn't sure she believed in ghosts. At home, the fact that raiding season occurred twice a year meant that people died sometimes, she had certainly never seen any of them lurking around the castle. But even though she was doubtful of the woman's claims that the Three-Eyed Raven was haunted, she still found it surprisingly difficult to sleep. The inn was full of unfamiliar sounds, from footsteps clattering overhead to the hum of voices out in the hallway, and often these would occur just as she was teetering on the edge wakefulness, startling her from her almost-slumber and leaving her to toss and turn and punch her pillow for the next hour. And when sleep found her at last, her dreams were filled with shadowy not-quite deities and voices from the past.<p>

When she finally awoke, she was disoriented by the pitch blackness. Since their quarters were underground, Guinevere always left a torch burning low out in the hall so they'd at least have a faint light to rise by in the morning; she'd never let it go out. Then she remembered where she was, and reached out to light her bedside candle, hands fumbling in the dark. As the candle flared to life, she rubbed the sleep from her eyes and leaned across the nightstand to squint at the clock sitting there. As her foggy brain registered the placement of the hands, she let out a gasp, eyes springing wide with panic as she leapt out of bed.

Quarter to eight. It was a quarter to eight, and the carriage across the Jeralls was leaving in fifteen minutes. She grabbed for yesterday's dress, yanking it over her head as she jammed her feet into her shoes. Her hair was a wild tangle sticking up in every direction, but that would have to wait. Sweeping the rest of her belongings into her pack, she slung it over her shoulder and raced upstairs, calling something to the innkeeper about leaving the candle burning as she stumbled out the front door.

Bruma's morning air was brisk, and she shivered slightly as she hurried along. She could still make it, she thought desperately. She could. She _had_ to. As she approached the gates, her hand went to her belt—an increasingly habitual gesture. The coinpurse, and—

Her heart froze with a jolt, and she immediately spun around in her tracks, spitting out a string of curses the likes of which she'd never before uttered, the kind she'd only ever heard Dunmeri sailors use. The pouch containing her travel documents was gone—she'd left it on top of the dresser back at the inn. She broke into a run, sprinting along faster than she ever had in her life. As she skittered around the stair breaks, pedestrians dodged out of her way, muttering curses of their own. The innkeeper let out a gasp as she barreled through the doors of the Three-Eyed Raven, sending one bouncing off the wall. She shouted an apology as she dashed down the stairs, bursting into the now-dark room she'd occupied the night before and groping along the top of the dresser. When her hand closed around leather, she snagged it and sprinted back out.

But as she ran along, the chapel bells began to toll, marking the hour. She'd now officially missed the carriage. But it _could_ be running late, though, she thought, picking up speed. Her legs pounded out a furious rhythm, her chest burning and her lungs screaming for air. Miraculously, the guard already had the gates open for a traveler entering the city, and she hurtled past him through the gap.

Her vision began to swim as she closed the distance to the stables, but as she approached, she managed to make out a wagon filled with passengers, the driver just about to climb up into his seat. Relief coursed through her veins, and she let out a breathless laugh as she staggered up to it. "Wait!" she cried out desperately, and the driver paused.

"Yeah?" He frowned as she stumbled to a stop, doubling over and planting her hands on her knees as she gasped for breath.

"I'm not too late, am I?" she wheezed. "I have my fare—I have it right here." She grasped at her coinpurse, but when she glanced up at the driver, he was staring at her doubtfully.

"The fare?" he asked. "You must be looking for the eight o'clock to Whiterun." He jerked a thumb over his shoulder. "Already left."

Her spasming lungs forgotten, she jerked up to full height. "Seriously?" She could feel tears of frustration springing to her eyes as the driver nodded. "When will the next one be?" she asked shakily, trying very hard to keep her tone even. Crying wouldn't solve anything. She had to stay calm, find a solution.

The driver only shrugged. "Beats me. Another week?" he ventured. "I don't work for public transportation. I was only hired to take these good folks to their summer trapping grounds." He pointed to the wagon, and for the first time she took a good look at its occupants. Rough-looking men and women in worn leather and ragged fur stared back at her—some of which, she realized with a sinking feeling, she'd seen outside Elle's Tap and Tack last night.

"Throat of the World, darlin'!" one of them shouted out, and the others chuckled. "Only place in Tamriel where the good pelts start coming in by Hearthfire." A thought suddenly occurred to her, and she turned to the driver.

"You're crossing the Jeralls, then?" she asked eagerly.

"That's right." He nodded, and she swallowed hard as she gathered her courage.

"Can I come with you?" she asked. The driver's eyebrows shot up, his expression as indignant as if she'd asked for his firstborn child.

"Can you come with us?" he repeated. "This isn't public transportation—what part of that don't you understand?" The trappers burst into uproarious laughter, and Monica's face flamed in embarrassment. She could feel tears pricking at the corners of her eyes again, but she doggedly persisted. _For Aventus._

"I can pay," she said quickly. "I have the money." She held out her coinpurse, but the driver's eyes narrowed.

"Thing is, I made a contract with these good folks to drop them in Ivarstead. And that's not anywhere near Whiterun. I'd have to go out of my way. Wouldn't be good for business, you see." He shook his head as she blinked back the tears, but one of the trappers suddenly spoke up.

"Eh, come on, Eran," he shouted. "Just drop her at Helgen. She can find her way from there."

"Yeah, come on, can we just get going?" another added in.

The driver sighed. "Look I can't let just anyone on," he said. "I don't know who you are or where you came from, but I _do _know the penalty for transporting fugitives across borders."

"I have my papers," she insisted, tugging open the pouch she still clutched and handing the papers over. "I'm an Imperial citizen. I have no bounty. It's perfectly legal for me to travel between provinces."

The driver skimmed over them for a moment, his eyes flashing over the lines of the Imperial scribe's neat handwriting. Then he handed them back, heaving another long sigh. "Fine," he relented, and she felt herself breaking into a small smile of triumph. "A hundred septims."

Her smile fell, and for the first time she felt a flash of irritation. "A hundred?" she asked incredulously. "But the standard fare's only seventy-five!"

The driver crossed his arms over his chest. "I'm doing you a favor here," he said sharply. "Besides, you're going to use up supplies—supplies I hadn't counted on losing. Supplies I'll have to replace." He raised his eyebrows. "Or you can wait until next week. Your choice." Another week of inn and food costs, and she wouldn't be able to afford to make it to Riften and back.

"Fine." Her shoulders slumped in defeat as she quietly fished out the amount and handed it over. The driver jabbed a finger at the wagon as he swung into his seat.

"Hurry up and get in," he ordered. "We've wasted enough time already."

* * *

><p>The trappers' stares were intent on her as the wagon slowly lurched up the mountain, relentless even as she self-consciously sat staring at her folded hands in her lap. They were probably harmless, but they still put her in mind of bandits—a fact that made her exceptionally nervous. On top of it, she had a knot of guilt gnawing at her stomach as she thought about how much money she'd wasted in the past two days. If only she had just stayed at Elle's. That single lapse in judgment had ultimately cost her thirty septims, and now she was stuck for three days with the very people she'd been trying to avoid. Even as they joked amongst themselves, their eyes never left her, and the journey quickly turned into a test of nerves as she willed herself not to squirm beneath their gaze.<p>

That night, the driver loaned her an extra bedroll, and she was crowded into a tent along with two other women—one who snored loudly and another who talked and thrashed about in her sleep. In addition, the ground was hard and it was _cold_. At dawn, she crawled out of the tent into the bone-chilling air, bundled in her cloak. Every muscle in her body ached as she dragged herself across the campsite to the fire, where she tried in vain to warm her numb, purple fingertips. As the trappers disassembled the camp, she gnawed on a stale piece of the bread she'd swiped from the Battlehorn kitchens, and then they were on the road again.

They hadn't been travelling for long—perhaps only an hour or two—when the driver suddenly let out a curse, slowing the wagon to a stop. The trappers were instantly on their feet and leaning out of the wagon, attention captured by something in the road ahead. Monica remained seated but craned her neck, trying to catch a glimpse of what was happening through several bodies' worth of armor. "Is there a problem here?" the driver was asking. Glancing upward, she saw several dark plumes of smoke staining the pale blue sky. An encampment of some sort—were they being robbed? She suddenly remembered the driver pocketing her coin, and her heart began to race. If they'd been stopped by bandits…

But although the reply the driver was receiving bore a hint of menace, it was entirely civil. "I'm sorry, sir, but you'll need to turn this wagon around right now," a commanding voice ordered.

"Why?" the driver demanded, his tone quickly developing an edge. "What's going on here?"

"I'm sorry, but the pass is closed. Please turn the wagon around and return to Cyrodiil." This time there was a warning in the voice. A grumble of dissent rose up from the trappers, and Monica twisted around in her seat, leaning as far out as she dared in attempt to see past them.

"Closed?" the driver demanded in a rising voice. "I have a contract to fulfill, dammit!"

"Sir." There was a rasp of metal. "I'm giving you five minute to get turned around and start heading down this mountain, or there _will_ be repercussions." The trappers' murmurs erupted into a cacophony of shouts, and there was a rippling in the pack of them as one suddenly broke free and charged past Monica, leaping off the back of the wagon.

"_Hey!_" he roared. "I have a_ livelihood _to make, godsdammit! I got three kids and a fourth on the way—how am I supposed to feed them?" His face was scarlet, throbbing veins standing out.

"Stand down, civilian!" Monica drew in a breath as the figure giving the order came into view. She'd know Legion armor anywhere. Her father's set still stood on a mannequin beside her mother's bed.

"He's right!"

"Same here!"

"Imperial bastards!"

The rest of the trappers joined in, the wagon jostling violently as they all charged out of it to stand beside their companion. Several other soldiers came running to stand beside their leader. "_Stand down, civilians!_" he shouted, and there was a sudden metallic chorus as the rest of the soldiers also drew their weapons. "Or I swear, you'll all be under arrest!"

At that Monica dove off the seat, hunkering down beneath the opposite row. Her view of the scene unfolding beside the wagon was blocked, but she could still hear everything: the trappers arguing, the soldiers threatening to arrest them, the driver screaming for them to get back in their seats. This was bad, she realized, this was very bad. In a matter of minutes, at best they'd be in the wagon headed back to Bruma, at worst the confrontation would turn violent. Terror welled up in her, but she struggled to think, to organize her thoughts into something coherent.

If the pass was closed, she'd have to find some other way into Skyrim, and that would likely mean going through Morrowind. By the time she made it back to Battlehorn, there'd be just a little over half of Guinevere's savings remaining—not enough for a whole other trip. And while they were saving up the difference—however long that would take—Aventus would be growing up in that orphanage, feeling abandoned, thinking his only family had forgotten him…

The Legion officer was still screaming, but the shouts of the trappers were dying down. She sucked in a deep breath, closing her eyes as she tilted her head back against the edge of the seat. There'd be no turning back from what she was about to do. Divines help her.

She lightly sprang from the back of the wagon, keeping low as she dashed toward an outcropping of rock, the hem of her cloak brushing along the ground. Darting around it, she pressed her back against the cold stone, trying to slow her breathing as the sounds of the conflict continued. Crossing the Jeralls on foot was a decidedly foolhardy idea, but it was the height of summer. If ever there were a time for it, it would be now. She had enough food to last a day or two—three if she _really_ rationed it. As long as she held a brisk pace and kept moving, she could make it to that town the driver had mentioned—Helgen—within a few days.

This was illegal, though, she reminded herself, not to mention incredibly stupid. For half an instant, some protective impulse of cowardice reared its head, and she considered darting back to the wagon. But her thoughts turned back to Aventus, and her resolve hardened. She quietly pushed off the rock and began to weave through the gaps, never looking back once.

* * *

><p>The sounds of the conflict faded behind her as she slowly made her way up the mountain. The landscape was rugged, jagged spires of earth, but she found the way through cold, unthawed valleys of stone, areas where the sunlight could never manage to entirely reach. Her ears were attentive, constantly listening for sounds of pursuit, but there was nothing. The silence was downright eerie: there were no birds or animals, only the occasional gust of wind whistling past and the quiet crunch of her footsteps.<p>

She'd hit the snow no more than an hour after she'd left the checkpoint behind. When she'd first caught sight of it, she'd actually stopped in her tracks and stared in amazement. Snow in Last Seed! Despite her now-soaked shoes and socks, a grin made its way across her face as she trekked forward. She'd always loved snow. When she was young, she and Heidmir would spill out into the courtyard at the first snow of the year, making forts and starting snowball fights with the other children.

As dusk approached and vegetation began to reappear, she found the road again. She breathed a deep sigh of relief as she hurried forward toward it. The fear that she'd end up lost on the mountain and end up freezing or starving to death had begun nagging at the back of her mind several hours back. But when she saw the wagon tracks cutting through the otherwise pristine snow, she retreated back into the trees. Someone had been through here recently, and she wasn't about to get caught crossing a border illegally.

But she was curious about the source of the tracks. Had the trappers' wagon been let through after all? Had it somehow gotten ahead of her as she'd clambered across the crags? But then she remembered the carriage she'd missed. With stronger horses and a lighter load, they could have easily gotten far ahead of the trappers—which meant the pass had to have_ just _been closed. Once again, she cursed her decision to stay at the Three-Eyed Raven as she hurried through the trees, keeping an eye on the road the entire time.

She slept under a massive pine that night, in a tiny bare area of space where the snow had been unable to filter through the boughs. The wind's whistles continued through the night, and she was constantly stirring, only to bury her head back inside her cloak and try desperately to think of something_ warm_.

When dawn finally arrived, she awoke with the sun, shaking a coating of frost from the folds of her cloak before resuming her trek down the mountainside. When she looked behind her, she could already see the massive peaks towering high in the distance. She'd made some significant progress the day before, she noted with a tinge of pride. She was slower on foot, but maybe she was closer than she thought. Perhaps she'd even make it to that town—Helgen, the driver had called it—before the day was up.

"Hold it right there."

The sound of a human voice, entirely unexpected after so many hours of isolation, shocked her to the core, eliciting a gasp of fear as she whipped around, searching for the source. She caught sight of a flash of blue—right as she came face to face with the jagged barb of a readied arrow.


	4. Chapter 3: Bear Country

A/N: Just wanted to let everyone know that NaNoWriMo starts on Saturday, and I will once again be participating. However, I've been working ahead on this story, and updates will be proceeding as usual. An early Happy Halloween to you all, and hope you enjoy this chapter!

* * *

><p>Chapter 3: Bear Country<p>

For a moment, Monica was too petrified by the arrow in her face to even think of its wielder. Then it registered that there was someone standing behind the bow about to release the string—yet hadn't done so yet.

"Please don't shoot me." Her voice was husky with fear as she slowly lifted her trembling hands in a gesture of surrender. "Please don't."

"What are you doing here?" At the sound of her assailant's voice, her gaze flickered to the man behind the bow. His hair was grimy and his face was streaked with dirt, but although his armor was worn, the wide blue sash across it seemed to indicate a uniform of some sort. He clearly wasn't a bandit, and at that, she relaxed slightly.

"Are you a guard?" she asked. "Is Helgen nearby?" She began to lower her hands, but there was a soft scraping sound, and she let out a strangled gasp of terror as her head was roughly yanked back and she felt the cold bite of steel at her throat.

"Best answer the question." The voice in her ear was low and dangerous, and she quickly choked out a reply.

"Helgen! I'm just trying to get to Helgen!" she yelped, trying to remain perfectly still. "They said I could get to Whiterun from there!"

"'They?'" The voice grew sharper. "Who's 'they?'"

"The trappers." Her throat suddenly felt incredibly dry, but she didn't dare swallow. "The trappers I crossed the mountain with."

"Igor?" the woman asked.

"There's a set of wagon tracks, a couple days old." Another figure appeared to the left of her field of vision, and she instinctively turned her head in that direction—only to let out a hiss of pain as the blade at her throat broke through flesh. "Other than that, nothing."

"Figured as much." The pain at her neck worsened as the woman pressed the blade deeper. "You've got about thirty seconds to give the _real_ reason you're up here, or I send you straight to Sovngarde."

She was serious, Monica realized. She was actually serious. As the dread began to pump through her veins, she miserably realized that she was caught. How could she have been so stupid, as to think that she could actually just slip across the border and get away with it? If she confessed, she'd be arrested, and there'd be no hope for reclaiming Aventus. But if she didn't…

"I...the trappers, we…" She nervously licked her lips. Her mother was going to be so angry—and disappointed.

"Spit it out," snarled the archer.

"They never made it over the mountain," she blurted out. "The pass was closed, and when they challenged the soldiers, I…I snuck through on foot." She braced herself, but was met only with silence.

"The pass is closed?" The woman holding the blade to her neck repeated the words, astonishment creeping through her tone. The blade suddenly disappeared, and the woman grabbed her arm, yanking her around to face her. "Why?" she demanded.

Monica blinked. "I don't know," she admitted. There was something about the woman's reaction that was distinctly unsettling. Maybe it was the glint in her eye, or maybe the fact that she hadn't said a word about her illegal border crossing. Either way, it made her skin crawl.

"Jyta?" Igor asked. Jyta's gaze didn't move from Monica's as she pursed her lips.

"You might be useful," she said finally. She nodded, and Igor stepped forward and pulled Monica's pack from her shoulders, tugging open the top and glancing inside. Monica opened her mouth to protest, but Jyta brandished her dagger, and she shrank back. "Turn around and start walking. Try anything, and I _will _kill you. Understand?"

Monica could only nod, her head bobbing helplessly as Igor and the archer whose name she still didn't know moved up to flank her on either side. She lifted trembling fingers to neck, staring as they came away slick with blood.

"Hey." And she froze as she felt a prick, just to the right of her spine. "I said move."

Her legs quivered as she stumbled forward, her stomach lurching at the thought of the blade piercing her spine. Jyta would bury the dagger in her back if she made a single wrong move, she just knew it. The knowledge had calcified along her bones, leaving them brittle with fear. And a tiny, wise voice she hadn't known she possessed whispered inside her head, informing her of the truth she wasn't ready to face: that these soldiers were not operating under Imperial law. Whatever fears she'd had about setting out on her own, this was much, much worse.

* * *

><p>They walked on. Somehow she managed to keep herself upright and moving forward, and Jyta's blade hadn't plunged into her back—yet. She felt numb, though; all her senses were dulled as though her fear were a great lake she was drowning in. Every ounce of her energy was entirely devoted to keeping slow and steady as possible. Somewhere in the distant reaches of her consciousness, it vaguely occurred to her to pray—to Stendarr, that these soldiers would show mercy; to Mara, that they would feel even the faintest hint of compassion; to Zenithar, that she could somehow make them understand she bore no threat; to Julianos, that she would have the wits to make it through this situation. But if her attention wavered—even for a moment—she knew she would falter, and Jyta would kill her. So she remained silent, gravely focusing on each next step.<p>

Presently, a whiff of wood smoke wafted through her fog, and her gaze rose from the ground in front of her to catch a flutter of movement through the trees. As they emerged into a clearing, she realized that they were in a camp of some sort, filled with weary-looking men and women outfitted in the same armor as her captors. She jumped as Jyta grumbled something out, but quickly realized it was an order of some kind as the unnamed archer took a firm grip on her arm, while Jyta stalked forward to meet a figure by the fire.

"Found something for you," she called out. The other woman rose to her feet, staring suspiciously in Monica's direction.

"What's this?" she asked sharply. Jyta, too, turned to stare at her.

"Found her up in the mountains. Claims she crossed over with some trappers, but…" Jyta suddenly leaned in closer, and her voice dropped too low to understand. The other woman continued to stare, her deepening frown giving Monica a sick feeling in her stomach. Jyta finally finished, and the woman stepped towards Monica, her gaze never once faltering.

"You're right," she said, lips pursed in a thin line. "I don't like it." She sighed, and finally turned back to Jyta. "Put her somewhere I can keep an eye on her. Not all the scouts are back yet, and he's going to want to deal with this himself." Jyta nodded.

"Yes, ma'am." She strode back over, producing a length of rope, and before Monica could react, grabbed hold of her hands and wound the rope around them.

"You—you don't have to, there's really no need…" Monica began desperately, but Jyta silenced her with a look.

"Be quiet." She yanked the knot taut, and Monica winced, stumbling as Jyta hauled her towards a nearby tree. "Stay here," she ordered, pushing her down beneath it. Kneeling beside her, she set to work on her feet. "Don't move and don't say a word. She'll be watching you," she pointed toward the woman she'd spoken to, "and believe me when I say this." She leaned forward menacingly. "No one in this camp will hesitate to kill you if you try to make a run for it. Understand?"

No, Monica wanted to protest. She didn't understand at all. None of this made any sense and she was terrified out of her wits and she just wanted to go _home._ But Jyta was staring at her, awaiting a response, so she meekly nodded, slipping her gaze down into her lap.

"Good." Jyta abruptly stood. "Remember: _don't move_," she warned, and then her boots trod out of sight.

* * *

><p>Hours passed, and Monica didn't move. The bark of the tree behind her was rough, jabbing her through the fabric of her dress, and with her hands bound it was nearly impossible to maneuver into a more comfortable position—at least without looking like she was trying to make a break for it. They really <em>were<em> always watching her, she noticed when she finally dared to look up and cautiously glance around the camp. There were no blatant stares, like there'd been from the trappers, but still, there was always someone with an eye on her.

As the sun moved across the sky and her sheer terror from earlier faded to a heavy sense of dread, she wracked her brain for all possible reasons why they might have taken her. It wasn't the border crossing—that much she'd figured out a long while ago. The soldiers had been wary—hostile, even—but even through her fright, she'd noticed something change in Jyta's demeanor when she'd mention the pass. She sighed and leaned her head back against the tree. Who _were_ these soldiers, anyway? Locals, clearly—they definitely weren't Legion, and she didn't recognize the blue sashes they wore as a uniform. They appeared to be mostly Nords, as far as she could tell, although she'd thought she spotted a Redguard a while back. But something was off about them—not just that they'd kidnapped her, but how shabby and on-edge they seemed. And as she watched them, she began to recognize certain mannerisms—ones she herself kept catching herself falling into. Their postures, their heads snapping up at even the slightest of sounds, their hands constantly on their weapons: these people were afraid. But _why?_ She sighed again, bracing against the tree as she dragged her legs up under her. That, she realized grimly, was the real question here.

The archer brought her a cup of water late in the afternoon, but other than that, activity in the camp gradually slowed to a lull. It was late in the evening, after the sky had gone black when her ears finally picked up the sound of voices again. There seemed to be a flicker of torchlight at the far end of the camp, and she sat up straighter, straining to see. Several figures were assembled there at the other campfire, their voices carrying across the clearing, but not their words. After a few moments, the gathering broke apart, some dispersing into the tents but others heading in the direction of her tree. As they drew nearer, she recognized more of the now-familiar blue sashes—but the figure in the middle was dressed in civilian clothing, his hands bound together as hers were.

She stared as they brought him closer, but her attention wasn't necessarily captured by the fact that he, too, was a prisoner. It was the sharp features, the elongated ears, the shadowy skin: the new arrival was a Dunmer. Her gaze dropped to her lap as they reached the tree, but she stole another quick glance up. Lord Adlen had been a Dunmer, and so had several of the sailors on that long-ago journey as a child, but elves of any kind were rare in Battlehorn these days.

One of the soldiers shoved the Dunmer down beside her, looming above him while the other bound his feet. With his back to the fire, Monica couldn't make out his face, but his grin was practically radiating off of him. "Don't try anything now, grey-skin," he taunted, then paused. "Or better yet. Go ahead and make my day." He chuckled as he sauntered back to the fire, and the prisoner spat something at him in Dunmeri—a phrase she recognized, and for a brief moment a smile twitched across her lips.

Alone in the darkness with a stranger, however, the fear that had been fading to an ache over the past several hours began to sharpen again. She could feel his eyes on her as she stared down at her hands. It suddenly occurred to her that he might not have been mistakenly seized—what if he really was some kind of criminal?

"So." There was the sound of a throat being cleared, and she jumped, her head whipping in his direction. He was staring at her, and by the dim distant light of the fire, she could just make out his eyes crinkling at the corners. "Pale skin. Snotty expression," he said thoughtfully. She met his stare with a blank face, bewildered, and his frown deepened. Then his expression smoothed out, his lips curling up into a smile. "You're a Breton," he said triumphantly.

It was her turn for her brow to crease into a frown. His thoughtful expression returned, and without warning, he shifted closer. She inadvertently shrank away, but his head was still inches from her ear. "Got any parlor tricks that might get us out of this?" he muttered.

Parlor tricks? Like _magic_? She shifted guiltily at that. She was no mage by any means, but there had been quite a few hedgewitches at Battlehorn—all of them more than willing to share some of their knowledge with an overeager twelve-year-old. She flexed her fingers at the memory, but her hands had long since lost circulation, and she didn't even feel the power coursing through them until it was too late. Even she jumped as the flash of sparks ignited between her fingers, jerking back and cracking her head against the tree.

"_Hey!_" The angry voice came from the direction of the fire, and her head snapped up to see the soldiers watching, one of them rising from his place. "What's going on over there?"

"Nothing you need to worry your pretty little head over." Her tongue had glued itself to the roof of her mouth, but to her surprise, the Dunmer shouted back. "We're having ourselves a real wonderful time over here."

The soldier muttered a muffled curse. "Don't make me come over there, grey-skin," he warned, but he sat back down again, turning to his companions once more.

Monica exhaled a shaky breath of relief at the close call, but the Dunmer was poorly attempting to hold back his chuckles. "Now there's an idea; burning the whole place to the ground. Although it might be nice if we weren't at the center of it." She finally turned to face him, and his face widened into a broad grin. "Name's Romlyn Dreth, by the way."

He certainly _seemed_ harmless enough. At any rate, they were in the same boat, and it couldn't hurt to have someone to talk to. She tentatively returned the smile. "Monica Aretino," she finally replied. "And I'm not a Breton."

"Oh?" His eyebrows rose. "You're no Nord, that's for certain. Imperial, then?" At her nod, he chuckled, breaking into another grin.

"But you were partially right," she suddenly blurted out. "My grandfather was a Breton." She paused, glancing upwards at the night sky, but when she glanced back to Romlyn, he was still watching her, an intent expression on his face. "I never met him, though," she continued, feeling suddenly self-conscious. She hadn't meant to start babbling about her family history to a total stranger, but it was such a trite conversation, and at the moment, trite was good. Trite was _normal_. "He died in the war. A lot of people did, I suppose, but still…" She shrugged—a difficult gesture with her hands bound in her lap.

Romlyn exhaled, tilting his head back against the tree. "I knew a few who did," he remarked. "I doubt you're old enough to remember, but not many were untouched by the war. Everybody lost somebody." His frown returned. "Something _this_ lot can't seem to remember," he added sourly.

At that comment, it was her turn to shift forward curiously. "Romlyn," she asked in a low voice, glancing nervously toward the fire. "Who _are_ they anyway?"

His expression morphed into one of surprise. "The Stormcloaks?" he asked dubiously. His confusion had turned wary. "Formerly the guard force of Windhelm, but becoming more of an army every day. They say Ulfric Stormcloak is looking for war, and if things keep going the way they have been, he just might find it."

That was a name she recognized. The letter informing them of Naalia's death had been written on his behalf. Her confusion must have been evident, as Romlyn clarified further. "You know that the High King was killed?" The courier _had_ mentioned it to Guinevere: political troubles, a dead king…

For the first time, tension filled Romlyn's face as he, too, glanced toward the fire. "It was Ulfric that killed him," he whispered. "Some folks say it was an honorable duel, other say it was murder. Whatever the case, near everyone's choosing a side. Like I said. War's coming." He sighed, scuffling his bound feet in the dirt. "'Course, the Legion outnumbers them in a major way, and they've gotten real jumpy as a result. This is the third time they've held me up in the past couple months," he added disgustedly. "It's a sad day when providing honest folks with mead for cheap gets you treated like a criminal."

"They captured you for selling cheap mead?" That sounded almost as ludicrous as her own situation. But Romlyn sat up straighter, indignation flashing across his face.

"Not cheap mead!" he protested hotly. "I'm selling good mead for cheap!"

"Shut up over there!" yelled one of the soldiers. Romlyn rolled his eyes, but dropped his volume.

"I work for Black-Briar Meadery, you see," he continued in a half-whisper. "A word of advice: don't ever pay for it outright. It's good, but not that good. Horribly overpriced." He shook his head ruefully. "So I sell cases of it for half of what inns and taverns pay through the Meadery." His tone brightened. "Everybody wins."

"And that's why they took you?" she asked. He shook his head.

"No, they took me because I crossed paths with their patrols. Like I said. They're jumpy, and it happens. Third delivery I've lost, though." His gaze turned scrutinizing, as he began to look her over for the first time. "What about you? Same problem, I'm guessing?"

She hesitated. "I…I don't know," she admitted in a whisper. "I…did something stupid, and I _thought_ they were arresting me for it, only…" She quickly relayed the details of her impromptu border crossing, but by the time she finished, Romlyn was shaking his head, once again quietly snickering to himself.

"They don't care. Trust me, anything short of killing or stealing from one of their own don't matter to them. It was the notion of having their location given away that got to them."

"Well, I know _now_," she protested. "They could have just sent me on my way and I'd have never known. What if they _don't_ let us go?"

Romlyn sighed. "Here's how this works," he stated, finality ringing in his tone. "In the morning they'll blindfold us and march us out of the camp, and then they'll leave us somewhere on the road. By noon, we'll both be out of here and on our separate ways." He settled back against the tree. "Might as well try and sleep as best you can," he suggested, shifting his gaze sideways to her. "Staying awake won't make the wait go by any faster."

But morning came and went, and by the time the sun was solidly in the west, Monica and Romlyn were still tied beneath the tree in the Stormcloak camp. And as she grew more nervous, Romlyn seemed to grow more impatient. "Stop that," he hissed, as Monica once again began straining against her bonds. Her wrists were already chafed and raw beneath them, but the urge to break free of them was only growing stronger, boiling just below her skin.

"You said they'd let us go," she whispered back, dropping her hands back down to her lap in defeat. "Why are we still here?"

Romlyn rolled his eyes. "I don't know," he growled through gritted teeth. "They will, though. They always do." She sighed, once more eyeing her hands. "Hey." He nudged her with a foot. "Tell me about this cousin of yours again. You sure you can handle him?"

"What?" Momentarily distracted, she shifted her gaze over to Romlyn.

"You sure you can handle him?" he repeated. "You said he was ten, right? Ten-year-olds are little monsters, you know. You think he'll take kindly to a long-lost relative showing up and dragging him off to another province? He'll be leaving everything he's ever known."

"But he already left it all months ago," she protested. "He's in an orphanage, remember? I'd imagine that _anything_ would be better than that." She chewed on her lip, suddenly worried. "Besides, he seemed nice enough in his letters. And Aunt Naalia would have raised him right. I'm sure of it." She was halfway through reiterating every piece of information she had on Aventus when she realized she hadn't been tugging at her bonds the entire time. She paused as she glanced down at her hands, briefest hint of a grim smile flickering across her face. Divines bless Romlyn. But he was recounting all the mischief he'd gotten into behind his parents' backs when he was a child, and she quickly jumped to counter the argument.

* * *

><p>By the time dusk arrived, they had both fallen silent. She barely even had the energy to be afraid anymore—much less carry on a conversation. She hadn't eaten since the morning before, and despite Romlyn's advice, she'd been unable to manage sleep. Every muscle in her body was stiff and aching, her wrists stung, and her head felt liked it'd been wrapped in cotton. Romlyn, too, was slumped against the tree, head bowed. She couldn't tell if his eyes were closed, but she hoped he'd fallen asleep again. At least one of them should get some rest. But despite her heightened nerves, her exhaustion began to overtake her, and her head finally drooped toward her chest. She was just grasping at the faintest reaches of sleep when the shouts unceremoniously wrenched her back.<p>

She sat bolt upright, heart thundering as the volume reached the roar of a mob. Romlyn had sat up, too, motionless as he stared across the campsite at the gathering. "Shut up!" someone was bellowing, voice rising above the rest as the command was repeated. The crowd died down to an angry murmur, and then abruptly parted, several figures jostling their way through.

"Azura preserve us." Romlyn's low murmur was barely audible above the noise of the soldiers, but when she turned to him, he was staring straight ahead, his facial muscles gone as stiff as stone.

"What is it?" she hissed, but Romlyn didn't look at her. The fading light may have been playing tricks on her eyes, but his face seemed to have blanched several shades paler.

"It's Ulfric." He was staring at the approaching figures, and her gaze quickly flitted over to them as well.

"The _jarl?_" One of them, she noted, lacked the typical Stormcloak armor, instead clad all in black. Was it really the ruler of Eastmarch? But Romlyn sucked in a sharp breath, and she turned back to him.

"If he's here…" Romlyn had been so unperturbed by the ordeal, but for the first time, his certainty seemed to waver. "Listen," he whispered hoarsely as the soldiers drew nearer. "Don't say a word. Don't even look at them. Just sit tight and keep quiet, all right?" She couldn't voice her agreement, however, as the soldiers were upon them, stopping merely yards away.

"You swore an oath," the jarl growled, shoving another figure to the ground—a figure wearing Legion armor.

"I had no choice!" the Legion soldier snapped, glaring up at the jarl. "What did you expect? This has gone too far, Ulfric. Even you have to see that."

"All I see is a man without honor," the jarl replied coldly. "You're a traitor, Torbik. And I only regret that I can't give you the traitor's death you deserve." He had drawn a dagger, and as Monica looked on in horror, he yanked the fallen soldier up and slashed it across his throat.

She didn't scream. Not exactly. It was more as though every breath of air in her body had suddenly been forced out, dragging sound along with it. She stared, aghast, as the body crumpled to the ground, eyes popped wide open, dark blood spurting from the grisly opening. The world was spinning, bile rising in her throat. When they'd brought Giovanni Aretino home, he'd been cold and still: features blank, eyes closed, and fatal wounds concealed by the shroud that draped him. But this man's face was frozen in an expression of horror, as if he were still locked in combat with the world he'd just been violently ripped from.

"You_ killed _him!"

"Monica." Romlyn's voice sounded as though it were coming from underwater, but she paid it no mind. The man had sprawled at the jarl's feet, dead; his unseeing eyes blankly fixed on her.

"You killed him," she repeated, wrestling free of the dead man's gaze and looking up at the jarl. "You _murdered _a Legion soldier."

"Monica, _shut up_." She felt the impact against her ankle as Romlyn kicked her, his voice gone low and terse. But she couldn't tear her gaze away from the jarl's. She couldn't even breathe.

"I can't believe you killed him," she whispered, her cheeks suddenly wet.

"She's the one." The soldier Jyta had brought her to when they'd first arrived had stepped up beside the jarl. "The spy."

Spy? Something deep inside her head twitched at that; it wasn't right, she wasn't a spy…

"Has she been interrogated?" the jarl was asking.

The woman shook her head. "I thought you'd want to handle it."

The jarl sighed. "You were right to wait." He motioned to another solider, who knelt and quickly sliced through the bonds at her feet. She was hauled to her feet, her legs collapsing beneath her as blood suddenly rushed back through them. Only the soldier's grip on her arm kept her from falling flat out on the forest floor.

"She's just a kid." Romlyn bitterly spat the words out, and with a twinge, she realized he was referring to her. "You've got it all wrong."

"Shut up." One of them delivered a swift kick to Romlyn's ribs. There was a hollow thud of impact, and she gasped as the Dunmer was knocked sideways to the ground. The haze that had been building around her suddenly shattered, and as a strength she hadn't known she possessed surged through her, she yanked free of the soldier's grasp and hurled herself at Romlyn's assailant.

"Leave him alone!" She slammed into him, shoving with all her might, and caught off guard, he staggered.

"_Fus!_"

The stinging pain filling her lungs came as shock. _Force_. The thought washed across her consciousness along with the dizziness, the trees that suddenly filled her vision spinning overhead. She'd fallen. Somehow, she'd fallen, but for the life of her she couldn't place _how_.

The trees' spinning began to slow, and the jarl's face appeared in her vision. "You and I need to have a talk." The soldiers once again hauled her up from the ground, their grips threatening to snap her arms, and the jarl turned to his lieutenant. "I want to find out everything she knows."


	5. Chapter 4: Stars' Truth

A/N: Just a fair warning, Helgen does play a big role in this chapter. I tried to keep it as interesting as possible, so just bear with me; it'll be over soon :) Enjoy!

* * *

><p>Chapter 4: Stars' Truth<p>

When the gods first made Mundus, they gave of themselves to create it. They gave until there was nothing left of them, and when the rest saw what had come to pass, they fled the newly-formed Mundus, tearing straight through the sky in their haste. The holes left behind in the veil of Oblivion became the stars, and ever since, those stars had kept their vigil over Nirn.

Monica lay beneath them, awash in their cold light. As the darkness soaked into her, she could nearly hear the voices of the stars. _We are here,_ they seemed to say. _We have always been here. We were forged in sorrow and grief, and we are slowly dying. We are death incarnate, and we will one day fade away._ It was her truth now, too, and her entire being throbbed with it as the stars whispered above.

But there was an echo beneath it; a foreign presence, like the rumble of the sea. She winced away from it, tried to block it out and seep into the night. Only the stars mattered now; their silent truths were her only need. But the sky around them brightened, swallowing them whole as their father himself appeared, and when his glare grew too fierce for her to bear, she was forced to turn her head away and face the source of the voice.

"You're alive." Romlyn loomed above her, crimson eyes glimmering with some unreadable emotion—surprise? Fear? "Praise Azura." The relief was heavy in his words, but his voice was garbled by the pain as waves of it thrashed through her.

"They wouldn't let me use magic," he muttered. Her vision was swimming, but his grey face appeared to have blanched nearly the color of bone, his eyes somehow too wide, his words too deliberate. "I'm not a healer, but I know a little. I could've done _something…_" His still-bound hands reached toward her, and she flinched away when his fingers probed at the swelling beneath her eye. But it was nothing compared to the fire.

An inferno blistered across her skin, coils of heat roaring upward and leeching into her core. Her lungs were seized by it; even the fluttering of her heart felt weakened. She tried to sit up, wincing as a new pain spurted across her ribs, but Romlyn lunged forward, nearly toppling over as he blocked her movement.

"Don't," he ordered. He smile thinly, but even through her foggy vision, she could see the crinkle of worry across his brow.

_Is it that bad? _She wanted to ask the question, but her lips were cracked, dryer than the walls of Battlehorn in the summer sun, and her tongue felt parched and limp in her mouth.

"No, no. Don't cry," Romlyn sighed. His clumsy fingers bumped against her temple as he attempted to wipe away the tears that were now spilling freely down the sides of her face. "It's going to be all right. You're all right."

But it wasn't all right. Not even close. The tears only flowed faster as recollections of the previous night forced their way through her memory. There'd been questions; questions she didn't understand, questions she couldn't have possibly known the answers to: names, places, events. And when she'd asserted that she didn't know, pain had followed. Pain had continued, even after she'd given up trying to protest, even after her voice had failed her.

Her feet, she noted as she weakly tested them, had been bound again, but her hands were free, her arms slung out to the sides. The bruising covering her ribs—along with Romlyn's interference—made it impossible to sit up, but when she twisted her head to the side, she caught a glimpse of blistered flesh.

As her stomach churned over on itself, she once again fought to find her voice. This time, the words came to her, and she forced them from her lips. "Romlyn," she gasped out in a croaking whisper. "Romlyn, kill me."

"What?" When she rolled her gaze back to him, his mouth was slightly gaped open as he stared at her, aghast. "Don't say that."

"Please kill me," she repeated, tears spilling down her cheeks. "Make it stop; I can't…I can't…"

Romlyn mumbled something she didn't understand, his fingers catching in her hair as he idly stroked it. "Don't say that," he muttered, his words flat as he repeated himself. "It'll be all right, Monica. Just…" He sighed. "Just lie still. Try not to talk."

She wanted to object, to insist that he carry out her request. But it was too difficult to argue. Her body could no longer contain the heat; it had turned her thoughts molten, sending them dripping from her leaden tongue before they could become words. So she turned her face back to the blinding gleam of the sun, the heat slowly overtaking her. From out of sight far overhead, she could still hear the stars' whispers.

* * *

><p>She was lost for some time after that. Or perhaps not for so long, as her sense of time was slowly frayed ragged by the pain. But when her thoughts began to sharpen again, the sun no longer met her gaze. The sky overhead was a dark blue, the fading glow reminding her of firelight. She closed her eyes against it; she didn't want to think of fire. <em>I touched the fire<em>, she thought dizzily. _I touched the heat itself and it _screamed_, it begged for mercy…_ Only, she suddenly realized, _she_ had been the one to scream. She set her teeth against the memory, but the flames didn't disappear; how could they, when they still danced beneath her skin?

Something touched her shoulder, and her eyes snapped open as she flinched away. Romlyn appeared above her, raising his bound hands to press a single finger to his lips. Panic immediately rushed through her, with such force that it momentarily washed away the pain. Ulfric, she thought hysterically, Ulfric was coming back for her. Dread was a fist to her stomach, but Romlyn was speaking, his lips barely moving. "Can you move?"

She stared back at in silence, petrified, and his eyes narrowed. "This is our chance," he hissed. "You have to move."

Move? They couldn't move, they'd be killed on the spot… Her confusion growing, she opened her mouth to reply when it happened. A shout, a clash of metal—and then an explosion of sound erupted from the near-silent camp.

Despite the tenderness along her side, she sat bolt upright, her jaw dropping at the sight before her. In a flurry of swords, the camp had been transformed into a battlefield. The noise was deafening: grunts of effort, shouts of command…and screams of pain.

She should have been frightened out of her wits. She should have been horrified as she saw a Stormcloak dropped to his knees, hands dripping with red as he tried to staunch the bleeding at his abdomen. But she sat numbly, staring in frozen shock. This wasn't happening. No, these kinds of things happened far away, to battle-hardened fighters among warring bandit tribes. She was imagining this. She was dreaming. The pain had driven her mad, and now she was hallucinating.

"Monica, _move!_" She was roughly jostled from her stupor as Romlyn half-fell across her legs as he crawled past, dragging himself forward on his forearms as his bound feet scrabbled at the ground. "Come on!" he yelled over his shoulder.

But the pain had returned along with her clarity. There'd be no way she'd be able to pull herself along on her arms. She drew in a shaky breath—and then remembered that her hands were unbound.

She heaved herself to the side, taking the brunt of the impact on her elbow. For a moment her balance wavered, and she nearly crashed to the forest floor before catching herself with her opposite hand, twisting her legs around. She scuttled forward unsteadily, her arms shaking so badly she nearly collapsed. She had just managed to stabilize herself, moving along at a halting but steady pace, when her feet caught on a root. Caught off balance, she crashed to the ground, her damaged arms brushing against it. A whimper of pain escaped, but she bit it back, her teeth digging into her tongue so sharply she tasted blood.

Ahead of her, Romlyn had paused. "You all right?" he asked sharply. She was blinking back tears, but she nodded, grimly hauling herself up and pushing forward. Every muscle in her body cried out in protest, but she doggedly persisted, keeping Romlyn's feet just out of her line of vision. And then something clamped down on her leg.

There was a boot in her ribs before she could even register what had happened, and suddenly she was sprawled across the forest floor again, the shadowy trees filling her vision. The stars had returned, she noted, before they were blocked out by the form of her assailant. "Surrender," a voice demanded, and it was then that she recognized Legion armor. No words came to her as she stared up at the Legionnaire in shock, but he seemed to take her silence as an agreement. The sword pointed at her throat disappeared, and he reached down—and grabbed hold of her arm.

The pain was something out of a nightmare as it fractured outward, splinters of it fraying the nerves as it surged along them. Her stomach was boiling, her vision was warping, and a shuddering wave of vertigo had overtaken her. The stars' whispering suddenly grew louder, and then the darkness mercifully took pity, heavily enveloping her and smothering the noise and the heat.

* * *

><p>When she awoke several hours later, she was a prisoner of the Empire, alongside the Stormcloaks. And when she realized that they were all about to be executed, the news hardly even fazed her. She was so tired: tired of fear, tired of pain, tired of <em>burning<em>. And as frightening as the prospect was, death would be a release. But it was the thought of Ulfric's impending demise that soothed the tendrils of fear wisping through her. A dark new emotion was rising in the pit of her stomach, and as she stood clustered with the other prisoners as a Legionnaire read off a list of their names, she finally put a name to it: _hatred_.

She'd never hated a single soul in her entire life. Not really. But now, her very blood seemed to scream Ulfric's name as it pumped through her veins, calling for his death. Soon, though. Soon enough. Somehow, the thought still brought tears to her eyes. Deep down, she knew it wouldn't make this better. Nothing could.

"Hey. You there." Something jostled her shoulder, and she gave a start, looking up to see the Legionnaire who'd been reading the names standing directly in front of her, eyebrows raised expectantly. "Who are you?"

Her throat felt as thought she'd swallowed sand, but somehow she found the words. "Monica Aretino," she murmured, her voice barely a whisper. "Of Battlehorn." She glanced down at the ground again, but not before she caught sight of the Legionnaire's puzzled frown.

"Battlehorn?" he repeated. "Never heard of it. Is that somewhere in the Reach?"

She shook her head. "County Chorrol."

"Cyrodiil, eh?" He made a small sound of some unidentifiable emotion—surprise? disapproval?—and she heard the rustling of parchment as he flipped through the pages of his list. "Hmm," he muttered, and then there was a pause. "I don't think I see your name here…"

_Because I'm not one of them._ She didn't bother trying to explain. She'd heard the shouts as the stranger from the wagon had made a break for it, and she had no doubt that his demise had immediately followed. There was no point in protesting. It wouldn't solve anything, and besides, she realized, her papers were gone. She had no way of proving anything.

"Captain!" the Legionnaire suddenly shouted, and she flinched at the sudden sound. "She's not on the list. What do we do?"

"Just forget the list," a voice barked in reply. "She goes to the block." And that, she thought grimly, was why it wouldn't have mattered if she'd tried to explain herself.

"By your orders, Captain." His voice lowered in volume. "I'm sorry," he said. "We'll get your remains back to Battlehorn." He sighed. "Follow the Captain."

She glanced back up at him then, and to her surprise, his face wore an expression of something strangely akin to sympathy. "Wait," she suddenly blurted out, and his eyebrows rose.

"Yes?" His expression had shifted to one of wariness, and she knew he thought she was about to declare her innocence.

"When you send…send me back," she said, stumbling over the words as she referred to her own corpse, "please make sure it's addressed to Aidan Vantinius." The thought of Guinevere opening up a crate to discover her daughter's headless body tore at her heart in the worst way imaginable. The hardened captain of Battlehorn's guard would be much better suited to the grisly task.

The Legionnaire frowned, but he began to nod. "Aidan Vantinius," he repeated. "Sure thing."

She could only hope he'd keep his word, but she whispered her thanks regardless, and turned to follow the impatient captain.

But as they approached the gathered Stormcloaks, her heart sped up as the knowledge of what was about to happen finally sank in. What did it feel like to die? She wondered this desperately as she silently fell in among the Stormcloaks. Would it hurt horribly? How did one know they were dead, if they knew anything at all? The face of the Legionnaire Ulfric had murdered suddenly popped up in her consciousness, and she began to feel sick. A faint comfort, however, came in the familiar priests' robes as a priestess stepped forward. The tension in Monica's breathing eased, albeit only slightly. At least she would end up in Aetherius. Maybe she'd even see Giovanni again. She took a deep breath as the priestess began the rites.

"As we commend your souls to Aetherius, blessings of the Eight Divines upon you," she began, but before she could get any further, a brash voice cut her off.

"For the love of Talos, shut up!" A Stormcloak suddenly stalked forward, headed straight for the block. "Let's get this over with."

"As you wish," the priestess replied, clearly miffed as she stepped away. Monica stared at the Stormcloak in indignation, her long-dry eyes suddenly filling with tears again. These Stormcloaks had robbed her of everything, even this one small final comfort.

The Stormcloak knelt at the block, and Monica's heart gave a quick flutter. Oh Divines, this was happening, this was really happening. As the headsman raised his axe, she looked away. Even so, she heard the wet _squelch, _as well as the shouts of rage from the Stormcloaks.

"Next, the renegade from Cyrodiil!" With a start, Monica realized that the sharp-voiced captain from before was referring to her. Her pulse quickened, her palms going slick with sweat as her knees began to tremble. She'd been longing for death—she'd even asked Romlyn to do it for her, she remembered. But this…this was really the end. After this…well, there'd _be_ no after. "I said, _next prisoner_," the captain snapped.

"To the block, prisoner." The other voice came from the Legionnaire, the one who'd promised to make sure her remains went to Captain Vantinius. "Nice and easy."

She took a deep breath as she stepped forward, her legs shaking so badly it was a wonder they could support her. The space between the assembled prisoners and the block seemed so far; she could feel all eyes on her as she drifted across it. She eyed the headsman's axe as she drew closer, still slick with the blood of the first Stormcloak, and a sick feeling washed over her. She swallowed hard. How badly would it hurt? Would she feel it as it cleaved through skin, through muscle? Through sinew, through _bone_? _Oh Mara, Stendarr, Arkay… _She tightened her jaw, but inwardly, she pled as desperately as the thief had.

The Stormcloak's body was still sprawled before the block, forcing her to pick her way around it as she stepped up to the block. She stared numbly at it for a moment, until the Captain's sudden grip on her neck forced her to her knees. The Legionnaire from before stood beside the block, and he briefly met her gaze with a curiously pained expression before a boot against her back forced her head down.

They hadn't bothered to remove the Stormcloak's severed head. It gazed up at her, eyes as soulless as that Legionnaire Ulfric had murdered. She couldn't look at it. She turned her head away, feeling the warm stickiness of his blood on her neck. And Monica Aretino came face to face with Death himself.

The vast creature had alighted atop the tower, scales black as the dead of night, colossal wings like a great ship's sail. A dragon. A creature of myth, straight out of legend.

If she was seeing one, then she was dead. She hadn't felt a thing, hadn't even realized it was happening. But the dragon was the avatar of_ Akatosh_, not Arkay… Then she heard a voice gasping out, "What in Oblivion is _that?_" In that same moment, out of the corner of her eye, she saw the headsman begin to hoist up his axe. And then the creature screamed.

The explosion of noise and light that followed left her dazed. For a moment, she thought the headsman's axe really had closed down on her neck: her vision blurred, her ears rang, and her body had gone numb. But as the buzzing faded and her vision cleared, she began to pick up on the screams—and the flames.

The sheer weight of the creature's voice seemed to have knocked her several feet from the headsman's block. From where she had fallen, she could see the sky above had turned a deep, swirling purple, raining fire down upon the town. _This_ was the end, she realized sickly, this was how it ended. Not with a single, methodical stroke—but with the sky itself turning to blood and the earth dissolving.

A sudden presence loomed over her, and she struggled to scramble away, thinking it was the creature. The quick sizzle of fear when she saw it was merely a Stormcloak surprised her, though: if the world was ending, why was she afraid anymore?

He was screaming at her, and she stared up him darkly. Was he going to kill her? Would he even bother? After everything, couldn't he just let her die in peace? A shadow suddenly engulfed them, and passed in the blink of an eye as the dragon soared overhead. The Stormcloak abruptly lunged for her, and she closed her eyes, wincing away from the blow sure to follow, but instead, her center of gravity shifted and warped.

Opening her eyes, she saw the debris-littered street passing underneath, along with flashes of the Stormcloak's heels. A musty darkness suddenly enclosed them, and then she was being lowered to the floor. The floor of the watchtower, she realized, her sharpening vision making out the shapes of Stormcloaks crowding inside, seeking shelter from the growing firestorm.

Another figure was curled up on the floor beside her, and with a flash of recognition, she realized it was Jyta. The other woman had a trickle of blood dripping down her temple, eyes glassy and disoriented as she stared through space.

"Hey." A hand closed on her shoulder, and she jerked away in alarm. But it was only the Stormcloak from the wagon—the one who'd carried her inside. "Get up," he said, glancing frantically toward the door as another shriek echoed from overhead. "Come on. Up the stairs."

Her legs had turned to jelly, though; she could scarcely remember how to use them. The Stormcloak's grip shifted, and he grasped hold of the back of her shirt collar, hauling her to her feet. "Up the stairs," he repeated, pushing her up ahead of him. Her feet seemed to kick into motion, and she numbly pushed forward, methodically treading up the stairs.

Without warning, the wall of the tower up ahead suddenly exploded inward, sending a shower of stone against the opposite wall. The impact threw her feet out from under her, but as she crashed down across the steps, she looked up in time to see a glimmer of black scales just before the flames came blasting through the opening.

In the aftermath, somehow that Stormcloak was _still_ screaming at her. He'd crawled past her over the debris, and was now standing up by the opening, jabbing a finger in its direction. She shakily clambered to her feet, the surge of dizziness that followed nearly knocking her back down. She'd luckily taken the brunt of the fall on her shoulder, but her raw flesh had still scraped painfully against the stone, and her head was swimming with pain once again.

But she wasn't going to let herself pass out this time. She set her teeth and doggedly stumbled the rest of the way up the stairs. Her shins were stinging, and she was fairly certain she could feel fresh blood trickling down them, but that was the least of her concerns.

The Stormcloak quickly beckoned to her as she reached him, but her attention was immediately jarred away from whatever he was trying to tell her. One of his companions had been right next to the wall when it had blown open, his corpse smashed beneath the rubble. Bones were visible, and blood was _everywhere_.

The Stormcloak shifted into her field of vision, mercifully blocking her view of the crushed man, and she forced herself to focus on whatever it was he was trying to say. "The inn," he shouted next to her ear, arm trembling with his frenzied pointing. "You have to jump." Through the haze of smoke, she could just make out the shell of a building, roof torn away with flames licking along the edges.

She stared at him, uncomprehending. Was this a roundabout attempt to kill her? There was a _dragon_ circling overhead, a nightmare creature straight out of myth. Why was he even attempting to bother? "You'll be fine," he shouted, as if sensing her apprehension."Just _go!_"

He pushed her toward the opening, and she teetered for a moment before regaining her balance. The ruins of the inn seemed so far away. But then the dragon screamed from somewhere overhead, and she took a deep breath, steeling her nerves. She pushed off as hard as she could, kicking away from the ledge. She seemed to hang suspended in the air, but the skeleton of the inn was rushing at her so damn fast…

She cried out as the impact reverberated through her shins, pitching forward and rolling only to crack her head on a support pillar. She sucked in a breath, but immediately began choking as the thick smoke filling the room entered her lungs. Overhead, the roof was being quickly swallowed by the flames, tiny embers spitting down and stinging her skin.

She staggered to her feet, struggling to claw them away with her bound hands. The fire was everywhere she turned; there was no escaping it. She couldn't stand it, oh Divines, she couldn't burn anymore…

Still coughing, she lurched through the ruined building, searching for an exit. Surely there were stairs, a ladder—_something_. But a portion of the floor had been blasted away, the floorboards splintered and the entire structure sagging. Unless she wanted this disintegrating ruin to become her tomb, she'd have to jump down through the opening.

She scrambled over to it, peering down to the surface below. It looked clear enough, but it was a long drop. She crouched beside it and gingerly twisted about so she was sitting on the edge. She'd already jumped from the watchtower, she reminded herself—how much worse could this be? Pitching her weight forward, she was suddenly surrounded by nothingness—and then the floor of the inn abruptly met her.

Groaning, she struggled to her feet. She could still stand; that was good at least. Nothing appeared to be broken. The door was nearby, hanging crooked off its hinges, and she hurried toward it and darted out into the street—only to come face to face with the creature.

For a moment she stood frozen in horror, but then its maw cracked open, and she skittered out of the way just before it unleashed a stream of flame. She barreled into something solid and was nearly knocked off her feet, but a hand clamped down on her shoulder. Startled, she looked up into the face of the Legionnaire with the list.

"_Get out of the way!_" he bellowed, shoving her behind a pile of debris where an old man and a little boy were already cowering. A split second later, another blast of flame washed through the street.

"Gunnar, take care of the boy," the Legionnaire panted once the glow had faded. "I need to find General Tullius and join the defense." His gaze shifted to Monica, and he jabbed a finger in her direction. "You. Keep close to me if you want to stay alive."

So he could be sure to have her executed as soon as this nightmare was over? She stood frozen still where she was as the Legionnaire took off across the town, but when she heard another shriek from the creature, she impulsively sprang into action, dashing after him. Impending execution or not, he had a sword, and she couldn't bear to face any more flames.

The Legionnaire obviously knew this town well, she noted as she followed him on a twisting maze between buildings and down cramped alleyways. His speed never faltered as he wove his way through debris, and it was all she could do to keep up with him. As they passed through a narrow gap, there was a sudden whoosh of wings as the creature passed overhead, and the Legionnaire just had time to gasp out a warning. "Stay close to the wall!" And then what appeared to be a massive flap of black leather stretched over a skeletal frame slammed down right in front of her.

She pressed flat against the wall, eyes widened in horror as she stared at the creature's wing. If her arms were free—and she had the courage—she could have reached out and brushed her fingertips against it. The wing shuddered as the creature roared again, and she quaked with terror as she heard the crackle of flames overhead. She helplessly met the Legionnaire's gaze as he stepped forward from the opposite wall. His lips tightening into a firm line, he lifted his sword and swung.

The creature made a guttural grunt of pain, and Monica felt several hot droplets of blood spatter across her face. The wounded wing flexed, and she instinctively ducked—just in time, as it snapped upward, and with a gale-force gust, the creature sailed away.

The Legionnaire was already moving again, and she hurried after him, still shaking with fear. This side of town seemed to have been hit harder, and the creature's most recent attack had only made things worse. Now they were flanked by fire on all sides as they stormed through the destroyed husks of building. The smoke burned her eyes horribly, and the coals' heat was leaching through the thin wrappings on her feet.

As they were weaving through a nearly-decimated house, her foot suddenly caught on something and she fell heavily. But it was neither dirt, wood, or smoldering debris that she fell against—this was something else entirely. Lifting her head, she saw it was a corpse.

Burned beyond recognition, its empty sockets were more haunting than the murdered Legionnaire's eyes, or the decapitated Stormcloaks'. Letting out a gasp of horror, she instantly scrambled away, her skin still crawling with the feeling of its crisp, leathery flesh against hers. As she fled out after the Legionnaire, she noticed her eyes were dripping with moisture, although she was unsure whether it was from the smoke or from weeping.

She hung back as the Legionnaire approached a group of soldiers, but hurried back up to his side as she realized they were all scattering anyhow. "Into the keep!" she heard someone shout. "We're leaving!"

The Legionnaire turned to her then. "It's you and me," he called. "Quickly. Follow me."

She had no choice but to hurry after him, an ill feeling spreading throughout her entire body as she did so. Somehow, it was beginning to feel as though she would never escape this nightmare. She was tired, so tired. All she wanted was to be free of the flames. All she wanted was to stop running.

Curiously enough, though, she got her wish as the Legionnaire skidded to a stop so abruptly she nearly crashed into him for the second time in the past fifteen minutes. "Ralof!" he shouted, addressing someone who had appeared out of the smoke up ahead—someone clothed in Stormcloak blue. "You damned traitor. Out of my way!"

"You're not stopping us this time, Hadvar," came Ralof's sneering reply. That voice—she knew that voice. Why did it sound so damn familiar? She craned her neck to peer around the Legionnaire—Hadvar—and let out a silent gasp. The Stormcloak who had carried her inside the watchtower—the one who had helped her escape—stood there, scowling at Hadvar. His attention briefly shifted to her, and she saw the recognition spread across his face as well. "You. Come with us. We're _escaping_." The last word, she noted, was directed at Hadvar, and the Legionnaire let out a low growl.

"Fine. I hope that dragon takes you all to Sovngarde!" He abruptly turned back to Monica. "With me, prisoner. Let's go!"

Monica stood helplessly, unsure of who to follow. Even the sight of Ralof's Stormcloak sash made bile rise in her throat. But the Legion—the _Empire _itself—had failed her—failed her miserably, and this Stormcloak, of all people, had risen to the occasion and saved her.

But then the dragon roared overhead, and she knew she had to make her choice—and do so quickly. No matter which she chose, death would eventually follow: whether by an Imperial beheading or by Stormcloak interrogation. It was an inevitability. She was a hole torn through Mundus—but when it came down to it, she would rather burn out than fade away. At least with the Imperials, her death would be swift. She turned on her heel and followed Hadvar into the keep.


	6. Chapter 5: Staadnau

Chapter 5: Staadnau

The massive stone walls of the keep instantly muffled the noise of the carnage outside. The quiet should have been a blessed relief, but instead, it was jarring. The room appeared to be barracks of some kind, filled with a low, cool darkness. But the world of blood and flames she'd just fled from lingered like a nightmare upon waking.

Hadvar was barring the door, slamming it shut and swinging down a heavy wooden bar into place across it. He planted his back against it, his panting ragged as he caught his breath. "Looks like it's just us." He dragged a hand across his forehead, pushing sweaty hair out of his face, and for the first time, he met her eyes. "Was that really a dragon?" His voice dropped in volume, suddenly earnest. "I grew up hearing stories about them—the bringers of the end times. And now, to actually see one, in person…"

He cleared his throat, and the fervored look faded from his face. "We should keep moving." His tone was once again crisp, a Legionnaire's stoic demeanor creeping back in the dim quiet of the keep. "Let me see if I can get those bindings off."

The rasp of his dagger was a warning sign, electrifying her every nerve, but it was the sudden movement as he grabbed for her hands that sent her cowering away. He frowned, lowering the dagger. "Come here," he said, his Legion voice wavering for the briefest second. "You need your hands free."

Fear was still fluttering in her throat, but he was absolutely right. She stepped forward on quivering legs and tentatively offered her bound hands. The dagger quickly sang through her bonds, and she winced as blood flowed back into her now-tingling hands. "There you go," he muttered as she flexed her fingers. "Now let me see if I can find something for those burns."

He began rummaging through cabinets, throwing objects to the ground in his haste. The ringing in her ears was slowly fading, leaving her to become more aware of all her aches and pains—both old and fresh. And of course, the memory of the dragon: its horrible maw, that _voice_. That was a voice that could bring entire cities to their knees.

She gave an involuntary shiver, but Hadvar had turned back to her, a neat roll of bandages in each hand. "I can't find any potions, but at least this should help." This time, his movements were slow as he reached for her hand. "Some of these look infected," he murmured, more to himself than to her as he quickly bandaged the wounds covering her arms. The pain flared up at the pressure, and she pressed her tongue against her teeth, bracing against it.

"There." He finally finished, and she inhaled, blinking away the pain. "Put this on." He thrust a bundle of leather in her direction, and she held it out, letting it unfurl. Legion armor. It seemed almost a sacrilege, but she pulled it on over the rags she wore regardless. It had been made for a much larger man, but despite her clumsy fingers, she managed to adjust it. Giovanni had always preferred a set of steel plates between himself and his enemy, but the fastenings were similar enough to her father's set.

Hadvar stepped forward as she finished up, helping with the last few sets of hard-to-reach buckles. "Ready?" At her nod, he turned toward the gate at the far end of the room. "Let's go."

The keep was far bigger than she'd realized, she quickly discovered. As she plodded along after Hadvar in too-large Legion boots, he led her through a twisting maze along corridors and down spiraling staircases into what she realized was a rather expansive system of underground levels. He clearly knew the place well, as he moved along at a brisk and steady pace, but as they were descending one of the staircases, he abruptly paused and turned back to her.

"The torture room." He motioned behind him. "I…" He wasn't meeting her eyes, she noticed vaguely, instead staring at her bandaged arms. "Gods, I wish we didn't need these…"

Before she could ask him what he was talking about, a series of shouts rang out from below, interspersed with clashing metal. "Dammit." Hadvar whirled around and dashed down the stairs. She followed, but at the bottom she skidded to a stop, staring in horror at the scene unfolding before her.

A dead Stormcloak lay sprawled across the floor, blood-spattered face staring blankly upward, while Hadvar and another Legionnaire were engaging another. The Stormcloak struck at Hadvar, staggering with the force of his own blow, and the other Legionnaire raised his weapon. She looked away just in time.

As the muffled rasps of weapons being sheathed sounded, a low chuckle filled the room. "Looks like you happened along just in time." Monica flinched as a third Legionnaire suddenly stepped forward from the shadows. "These boys seemed a bit upset at how I've been entertaining their comrades." He laughed again, unpleasantly, and Monica skittered forward around the bodies and the blood to Hadvar's side.

"Don't you know what's going on?" Hadvar's Legion voice had returned. "A dragon is attacking the keep."

"A dragon?" The old man snorted. "Don't make up nonsense." Hadvar drew in a breath, his hand balling into a fist.

"We don't have time for this. We need to get out of here."

"You have no authority over me, boy," the other Legionnaire snarled back, but as the exchange continued, Monica began to glance around the room. The walls were lined with narrow cells, but it was the racks of evil-looking tools and suspicious rust-colored stains that made her heart catch in her throat as she remembered what Hadvar had said about a torture room.

She actually took half a step away from Hadvar, struggling to control her breathing. This wasn't right. This wasn't what the Empire stood for. Giovanni would be horrified to see this; any Legionnaire with a shred of honor would be ashamed.

She had nearly grown used to the fire, but the fear was an icy shock as it slid along her spine, her pulse quickening. The Stormcloak who had rescued her—Ralof—suddenly popped into her thoughts, and she wondered if she'd made a major mistake.

"Is that a _prisoner_?" Her attention was recaptured by the argument going on beside her as Hadvar's voice abruptly rose.

"Don't bother with that," the old man protested, but Hadvar stormed across the room to the far row of cells, checking the other Legionnaire with his shoulder as he did so. Monica hesitantly stepped closer, her breath catching as she caught sight of the grey-faced figure propped in the corner.

"Ah." The old man gave a short, uncomfortable laugh. "Lost the key ages ago. Poor fellow screamed for weeks."

"You sick bastard." Hadvar's arm shot out, snatching the old man up by the collar, and with a surprising strength, sent him sprawling across the table. "And you call yourself an Imperial Legionnaire." His words were warped with barely-suppressed rage as he forced them through clenched teeth. There was the rasp of a dagger, and Monica felt the breath sucked from her lungs as it flashed at the man's throat.

"_Hadvar!_" she shrieked, her voice returning to her as the Legionnaire from Ulfric's camp and the headless Stormcloak swam before her eyes. Hadvar's head whipped in her direction, and a quiver of fear ran through her, her gaze zooming in on the blade in his hand.

But Hadvar released the man, and she breathed a shaky sigh of relief as his dagger was clipped back in its sheath. He turned away, bowing his head as he gripped the cell bars, and the old man scoffed.

"You'll pay for that, boy," he growled, his eyes spitting sparks.

Without warning, Hadvar wheeled and punched the other man square in the face. There was a crunch, and the man staggered, hands coming away from his face bright red as blood poured from his nose.

"I don't care." He stomped toward a low doorway in the corner of the room, pausing to sneer back at the old man, and she had no choice but to tentatively hurry after him. "We're getting out of here."

Anger was rising from him in waves, setting the tiny hairs on the back of her neck on end as she followed him down a narrow row of cells. The cell bars were like fangs framing dark maws, only the stench giving any indication of the horrors that lay within. But as they neared the end, the heavy light of the flickering torch revealed the ghastly outlines of skeletal remains.

Hadvar glanced over his shoulder at her gasp of horror, but with his face cast in shadow, she was unable to make out his expression. He merely stepped to the side and motioned for her to duck through an opening in the crumbling brick. "Let's go, Aretino." He glanced behind them, and when he spoke again, his tone was tinged with sadness. "There's nothing we can do for them now."

* * *

><p>The main chamber of the cave they emerged in was spacious, the murky darkness interrupted here and there by faint patches of sunlight from overhead. But they were only travelling deeper beneath the ground as they made their way through, and the darkness became heavier as the way grew narrow—not to mention the treacherous terrain. By the time the light of day finally appeared up ahead, Monica's knees were scraped bloody, and Hadvar was limping painfully.<p>

After the dense blackness of the cave, the sun's glare was blinding. Shielding her stinging eyes, she stumbled out into the open, gulping in deep breaths of the crisp, clean air. "Wait!"

Without warning, Hadvar shoved her, sending her sprawling across a scattering of pine needles and pebbles. Before she could even react, there was a sound from above like rhythmic gusts of wind, and a massive shadow engulfed them.

Hadvar crouched mere inches away, watching as the dragon soared overhead, wings beating steadily as it sailed higher and higher, until it was just a speck on the northern horizon.

"It's gone." There was uncertainty in his words, as though he were trying to convince himself as well as her. "Gods, I hope it's for good." He stood, offering her a hand, but she scrambled to her feet on her own. He was carefully watching her, wearing the same expression he had when the captain had ordered her to the block. "Look, I don't know—" He began to speak, but cut his words off abruptly, tightly pursing his lips. "Do you know where you're headed?"

Headed? She didn't even know where she _was_. She hadn't had a plan in place since the carriage had rolled up to Bruma, a moment that now felt like part of a different lifetime. She shook her head, staring down at her boots as Hadvar gave a sigh.

"The closest town is Riverwood," he finally said. "My uncle's the blacksmith there. That's where I'm headed." He paused, and even through the haze of her aching body and shredded nerves, she got the sense he was making a decision. "You're welcome to come along if you'd like. I'm sure he'll help you out."

She thought back to the torture room, a shudder crawling up her spine at the thought of skeletal hands reaching out from the bars of their final resting place, the sagging flesh of the dead prisoner's face, the torturer's light easy laugh as he spoke of his victims. Of her own death sentence, handed down without a moment's thought. After today, she would never again trust the Imperial Legion. But her belongings were gone, her injuries were severe, and she had no way of knowing how far she was from civilization. And once again, this Legionnaire was offering her only way out.

She began to nod, and he cleared his throat. "Well then," he said, more to himself than to her. "We've got a ways to go. No sense in wasting time standing around. If you're ready, that is."

As they set off down the path, she looked out over the valley, catching her first real sight of Skyrim. The sun was hanging low in the western sky, its pink glow illuminating the jagged edges of the mountain ranges visible on all horizons. The trees here weren't nearly as dense as they'd been up on the mountainside, and sparse, low scrub filled the spaces in between. The purity of the air was a refreshing change after the dense smoke of Helgen and the staleness of the cave, but her chest still burned as she drew in breaths, and every few minutes either she or Hadvar would find themselves doubled over with a coughing fit.

They travelled in relative silence, aside from the coughing and Hadvar's occasional quiet comments on their surroundings or the conflict with the Stormcloaks. The light slowly faded as the hours wore on, and as they staggered through a deepening twilight, Monica became certain that each step she took would be her last.

Everything hurt: her injuries stung, her very bones ached, and she could feel blisters forming as her feet slid around in the too-large boots. With every step, her body screamed at her to _stop_—which she might have done, were it not for Hadvar hobbling beside her, mumbling every so often that Riverwood was "not much further," just as he'd been saying for hours.

But when they rounded a corner and the town's watchtowers came into sight, she nearly cried with relief. Low and wooden, the towers were shabby with disrepair, yet they sat there staunchly at the edge of town, a tangible end to this nightmarish journey finally in sight.

The town was quiet and nearly empty, the darkness broken here and there by the glow of lighted windows. As her ears picked up the sound of clanging metal, Hadvar pointed to the left, veering off toward one of the many low, wooden buildings. "Uncle Alvor!" he called out.

The clanging stopped, and a tall, bearded figure emerged from the shadows of the side porch, silhouetted against the growing darkness by the light of the forge behind him. "Hadvar?" His tone bore a note of surprise, and although it was not unpleasant, she could make out the shrewdness of his features as they stepped forward into the light. "Wasn't expecting to see you for some time. Are you on leave or…" His words trailed off, and his gaze slowly scanned over them as he took in their ragged appearance. "Shor's bones, boy, what happened?" His alarm was evident now, but Hadvar quickly shushed him.

"Keep your voice down, uncle," he muttered, glancing over his shoulder in the direction of the road. "We shouldn't talk here."

Alvor sighed, but miraculously didn't ask any more questions. "Come on inside, then," he said. "Sigrid will get you something to eat, and you can tell us what happened." Motioning for them to follow, he made his way down the length of the porch and swung open the door. "We've got company, Sigrid!"

An auburn-haired woman turned from the fire as they stepped inside, her eyes widening as she caught sight of Hadvar. "Hadvar! This is a surprise, we didn't think…" Much like Alvor, her voice faded as she noticed the state they were in. Her eyes grew sharp as she exchanged a look with her husband, and when she spoke again, her tone was brisk. "Sit down, you two." She marched over to a cabinet in the corner and took out a stack of bowls. "Alvor, there's a stew on the fire," she announced. "I'll set out some fresh clothing, but first I expect you'll be needing baths." She turned to the far corner of the room. "Dorthe!" she called.

Monica jumped as something touched her, but it was only Hadvar. "You can sit down, you know," he murmured. He gestured toward the table, where Alvor had already taken a seat. She moved stiffly toward the nearest chair, nearly sighing with relief when the weight was taken off her aching legs. "_Dorthe!_" Sigrid was shouting again, and with a clatter, a small blond figure appeared in the corner.

"Hadvar!" she cried excitedly, hurtling forward with such force that the burly Legionnaire teetered in his chair for a moment. "I didn't know you were coming! What's it like in Helgen? Do you like it there?" She suddenly seemed to notice Monica. "Who's your friend?"

"Dorthe," Sigrid interrupted, "don't pester your cousin. Come with me; we're going to get water."

"But I want to talk to Hadvar," she objected, a furrow appearing between her brows. Sigrid's eyes narrowed.

"_Now_, Dorthe." Her tone left no room for argument. Hadvar smiled, a real smile that briefly erased the weariness from his face.

"Do as your ma says," he agreed, ruffling the girl's hair. "There'll be plenty of time for you and I to talk later."

Dorthe sighed, resignedly following her mother toward the door. "But it'll take _forever_," she muttered. "Can't I at least ask Frodnar to help?" It might have been Monica's imagination, but she thought she saw Hadvar's face freeze at the mention of the name.

"No," Sigrid said, her gaze once again flickering to Alvor's. "No, we're doing this together," she continued, her words somehow sounding forced and overly bright. "It'll be fun."

"But Ma…" Dorthe's protests disappeared out the door, and Alvor leaned forward, a deep frown settling across his face.

"Now, then, boy," he said, "What's going on here?" When there was no response, Monica glanced up from the scarred surface of the tabletop to see Hadvar glancing uneasily between her and his uncle. "What are you doing here?" Alvor repeated. "The two of you look like you lost an argument with a cave bear. What happened?"

Hadvar sighed. "I don't know where to start," he admitted. "You know I was assigned to General Tullius' guard. We were stopped in Helgen, and…" He paused, glancing at Monica, and for the briefest of moments, she thought she saw a hint of guilt flicker across his face.

"And?" Alvor pressed.

"And we were attacked." Hadvar's eyes slid shut. "By a dragon."

There was a silence that followed, and when she finally looked at Alvor, his concern had been replaced by misgiving. "A dragon?" he repeated, doubt creasing his brow. He turned abruptly to Monica. "Is he drunk?" he demanded sharply.

She shrank away from the flare of anger, quickly shaking her head as Hadvar interjected.

"I know it sounds…well, unbelievable," he admitted. "But there it was just the same, big as a mammoth and blacker than night, like something out of nightmare. Flew over and just tore the place apart." He let out a weary sigh and leaned forward, propping his elbows on the table. "Helgen is completely destroyed," he said bitterly. "I don't know if anyone else made it. I barely did myself."

The outrage had faded from Alvor's face, his expression growing solemn as he watched his nephew. Finally, he began to nod. "What do you need?" he asked quietly.

"Food, supplies, a place to stay." Hadvar shrugged. "I need to get back to Solitude, but as you can see," he gestured toward Monica, "we're really in no shape to travel."

"Of course." Alvor nodded. "I'm glad to help however I can." He then turned to Monica. "Any friend of Hadvar's is a friend is a friend of mine. You're welcome to stay as well. Were you also part of General Tullius' guard?"

"She's a civilian," Hadvar cut in quickly—too quickly, but if Alvor noticed, he didn't say anything. "There was mass confusion in Helgen. It was everyone for themselves, so Monica and I escaped together." It was jarring to hear him say her name—but no more so than anything else about this entire experience. She dropped her gaze back down to the surface of the table as Alvor leaned back in his chair and gave a long, ragged sigh.

"A dragon," he repeated, the words now hanging heavy in his tone. "A dragon, here in Skyrim. Could it really mean…"

The door crashed open and Monica shot upright, her heart continuing to thunder even as she realized it was only Dorthe, lugging a bucket of water. "Dragon?" she demanded. "Hadvar, did you fight a _dragon_?"

"Hush, child." Sigrid appeared behind her, also bearing buckets. She pulled the door shut firmly behind her, then paused to survey the table. "Alvor, you didn't feed them?" she exclaimed, hurrying to the fire.

But Dorthe wasn't finished. "What did it look like?" she pressed. "Did it have big teeth?"

"_Dorthe_!" Sigrid spun from the fire. "Go get the rest of the water," she ordered sharply. "_Now_."

"It did have big teeth." Hadvar suddenly spoke up. "Big wings, too."

Monica missed the glare Sigrid must have shot Alvor, but he sat up abruptly, clearing his throat. "Now Dorthe," he said patiently, "listen to your mother."

Dorthe groaned. "Fine," she muttered, slipping back outside with a long-suffering sigh. As soon as the door closed behind her, Sigrid spoke.

"A dragon?" Her voice was tense, her features frozen, and as Hadvar and Alvor both nodded, her expression fell into one of horror.

"Helgen's gone." The dread in Alvor's tone now matched Hadvar's. "These two escaped alone, and we don't know if there are any other survivors."

"Oh _gods_." Sigrid clapped a hand over her mouth, sinking into a nearby chair. "Helgen isn't far—what if it comes _here_?"

"It was headed north, last we saw of it. It's long gone by now." Hadvar's words were meant to be reassuring, but even he sounded unconvinced.

"And who's to say it won't return?" Sigrid snapped, but then her expression wavered. "I'm sorry, Hadvar," she whispered. "But if there's a dragon out there…" She didn't finish the thought, but she didn't need to. Monica was already intimately acquainted with the same fear shining in the woman's eyes.

"I wounded it." Hadvar's voice was low, and when she glanced over at him, she saw that fear reflected in his face. But when he spoke again, his words crackled with defiance. "It was wounded when I struck it." He met Sigrid's gaze. "It can _die_." The final word was tinged with wonder, as though he'd stumbled across a grand realization. But she thought of the ear-splitting crack as the stone wall of Helgen's watchtower had shattered, and her stomach dropped even lower.

"Before we get ahead of ourselves with talk of dragon-slaying," Alvor cut in, "perhaps we ought to get the two of you fed and cleaned up." He hid it well, she realized, but the strained, deliberate quality of his voice gave away the fact that his terror was equal to his wife's. He had risen to his feet, and was inching toward the door. "I'd better check on Dorthe," he mumbled, and then he was gone.

After a moment, Sigrid rose to her feet and swept over to the fire, wordless as she filled bowls of stew. Monica barely blinked as one was set in front of her, too tired to make any movement towards it. It'd been days since she'd eaten, though, and the clawing in her stomach finally took over, her fingers weak and clumsy as she gripped the spoon. But it only took a few bites for her to discover the motion was too painful, and she ended up silently staring into the bowl as Alvor and Dorthe hurried in and out with the buckets of water.

As she sat warm and secure among friendly faces, though, she could feel an uncomfortable tightness in her chest, a whisper of a warning at the faint reaches of her consciousness. But despite it, the fire that had boiled beneath her skin was in her head now, replaced in her veins by ice. Whether it was the heat or just pure exhaustion, she didn't know, but she could feel her senses slowly dulling, her awareness growing muffled. And even as she drooped from her chair toward the floor, she held the sobering knowledge that it would be a long time before she ever felt safe again.


	7. Chapter 6: The Silence

A/N: Hello everyone; I am so sorry about skipping last week's update. My work schedule has been switched around a lot lately, and I completely lost track of the days as a result. And then I forgot about updating altogether (whoops, haha).

This chapter is largely a transitional one, so bear with me if it gets a bit boring. Aventus will soon be making his appearance, and from there on out, things are going to get a lot more interesting. Enjoy!

* * *

><p>Chapter 6: The Silence<p>

"Monica?"

Monica's eyes blinked open at the sound of her name, staring blankly at the bare wood of the wall as the sound of footsteps padded closer. "Monica, Hadvar's ready for you." Sigrid's voice was gentle as she approached, her words as soft as her footsteps.

Monica pushed aside the blankets as she slowly sat up, wincing at the stabbing ache of her bruised ribs. Swinging her legs over the side, she stiffly rose to her feet and shuffled across the room.

It'd been a little over a week since she and Hadvar had arrived in Riverwood—although she'd only become aware of it recently. As Hadvar had noted back in Helgen, some of her burns had grown infected, and the subsequent fever that had wracked her body left her delirious for days. She was still feeling the lingering effects of it, but even in her dazed state, she knew how close it had come to claiming her. But as Alvor had put it when he'd walked through the door to see her awake and upright drinking soup in Dorthe's bed, she was a "fighter." As if that meant anything. She was still plagued by constant pain, and she still cowered at the slightest sound in anticipation of a dragon's scream.

She reached the fire, where Hadvar sat on a cot, his wrapped ankle propped up on it. Without a word, she stooped so he could grip her shoulder, his other hand clutching the makeshift crutch Alvor had carved for him. With a grunt of effort, he heaved himself upright, clinging to both her and the crutch for support as he staggered over to the table on his good foot. When he'd finally pulled his boot off that first night, he'd told her, his ankle had been black and swollen twice its size. According to Sigrid, it wasn't broken, but it was a nasty sprain, and he was looking at a good several weeks before he'd be back on his feet again.

He lowered himself into the nearest chair, and she sat down at the end of the table, gingerly laying her arms on the corner between them. He'd taken to changing her bandages himself, and even though it'd only been a few days, it had already become a ritual.

As he began to lay aside the wrappings, she lifted her eyes up to the ceiling. She couldn't bear to watch; without a visual, it was much easier to dissociate from the process. The pain, however, was a sharp reminder, and she gritted her teeth together, determined not to pass out.

"They're looking better today," Hadvar remarked, lightly lifting her hands and turning them over. "With the infection gone they should start healing faster." He paused. "How do they feel? Any better?" She shrugged, wrinkling her nose at the smell, and he sighed. "Well, give it some time," he reasoned, and she heard the scrape of a jar lid as the aroma of the salve filled the room.

Although she made it through while remaining conscious, her head was swimming by the time it was over. Blinking away the last flares of pain, she rose to her feet and shakily made her way back to the bed. But within minutes, she heard Sigrid's voice again, rousing her from her almost-slumber.

"Monica?" Her footsteps approached again, somehow sounding more tentative than usual. "I was wondering if you could help me with something."

That got her attention, and she slowly sat up to see Sigrid standing at the foot of the bed, wearing an earnest, careful expression. "Dorthe wanted to go outside to work on her lessons. I was wondering if you could sit with her? Just to keep an eye on things." She smiled, and Monica frowned. What little she had seen of Riverwood seemed quiet, and besides, Dorthe was hardly the age to need a babysitter.

But then she saw the girl standing behind her, wearing the same cautious expression as her mother, and Monica felt her face color as she realized this was all a ruse. Nodding, she slipped from the bed and followed Dorthe to the door, thinly returning the girl's cheerful smile.

In the doorway, however, she froze. Stepping into the open air for the first time since she'd arrived in Riverwood was a startling feeling, and for a moment, the breeze seemed to carry the sound of dragon's wings. But Dorthe turned to her with that tentative smile once again, and she woodenly followed the younger girl out onto the porch.

There was a bench beside the door, and she sank down onto it as Dorthe sat on the steps, humming cheerfully to herself as she spread out her books beside her. It was too bright out here, Monica thought nervously, pressing her spine against the wall of the house. Too loud, too many strangers, too many distractions. A passerby turned at the corner by the house, staring curiously at her as he passed, and she shrank back, wishing she could sink into the ground itself.

But as time wore on, she began to breathe a little easier. It was cooler here than it was in Cyrodiil this time of year, and the air was clean and filled with birds' songs. She finally relaxed enough to tilt her head back and close her eyes, but she was startled out of her peaceful state by the sound of a voice.

"Hey, Dorthe." Her eyes flew open to see a boy about Dorthe's age approaching, a shaggy grey dog at his side.

"Frodnar!" Dorthe shot to her feet, knocking her book to the ground in her haste. "I thought you were helping your ma at the mill today."

"Just in the morning." His eyes then drifted to the side, peering through the shadows of the porch at Monica. "Who's that?" he asked, his voice little more than a whisper, his stare never wavering.

"Ma's sister from Falkreath." The boldfaced lie rolled off the girl's tongue so easily, Monica blinked in surprise. The name Frodnar was familiar, she realized; Dorthe had mentioned him the night they'd arrived in Riverwood—and Alvor and Sigrid had reacted quite strangely.

The boy continued to stare. "What's wrong with her hands?" he whispered, and Monica instinctively drew her arms in closer, tugging down her sleeves to cover the bandages.

"House fire," Dorthe replied matter-of-factly. "Terrible tragedy. Everything's gone. So she's staying with us for a while." She glanced down at the dog at the boy's side, and abruptly changed the subject. "What did you do to your dog?" she asked.

The boy's attention finally shifted from Monica, and he too turned to the panting animal. "Oh yeah—I painted an old fur white and tied it onto him," he said with a snicker. "I've been painting some branches, too. I just have to wait for them to dry before I can tie those on, and then—instant frostbite spider!"

Dorthe scoffed. "A costume?" she demanded. "You can't be serious. Nobody's going to believe that your dog is a frostbite spider! And if they do, they'll kill him." Her tone had turned disdainful. "That's not much of a prank."

"Oh, yeah?" His eyes narrowed. "Well, what would you rather do?" he challenged.

"Well, we could play…tag! You're it!"

"Hey, no fair!" he protested, spinning to follow her as she bounded off the porch and charged across the street. "Get her, Stump!" he shouted as they disappeared around the side of a building.

Monica watched them go, vaguely wondering if she should be concerned. That had been a well-crafted diversion—something she wouldn't have thought the girl capable of. But more importantly, she wondered why it had been executed in the first place. The boy seemed harmless, and not too overly bright.

She sighed, leaning her head back against the house. This was the first time she'd been alone since that morning in the mountains—the morning the Stormcloaks had picked her up. And while the solitude was a blessed relief, the accompanying silence allowed the memories to creep back, forcing themselves front and center. The heat, the fear…the taste of ash, the shrieks of the dragon as it swooped overhead…

She nearly leapt out of her skin as the front door clattered open, skittering sideways as her heart beat frantically against her ribs. "How's it going out here?" Hadvar asked cheerfully as he clumsily stumbled out onto the porch, gripping onto his crutch for dear life. His smile switched to a frown as he took in her wide-eyed expression, and he glanced around warily. "Where's Dorthe?"

In response, she lifted a finger and shakily pointed across the street, where they were hopping over a fence, still engaged in their game of tag. Hadvar's frown deepened, and she noticed him cringing back further into the shadows. "We'd better go inside," he said darkly, swiveling around and hobbling back through the door. He didn't have to tell her twice.

* * *

><p>She began to spend more and more time outside in the coming weeks. Autumn was underway, and it was rapidly taking hold. It was cool in the mornings, but the chill gradually burned off into balmy afternoons, and although they were surrounded by an evergreen forest, the few deciduous plants in the area were slowly brightening with color. There was one week when it rained for three days straight, and during that time she hardly left the porch, breathing in the smell of the rain-soaked earth and listening to the steady sound of clanging from Alvor's forge. And when the rain finally cleared, Dorthe and Frodnar gathered out in the streets, splashing each other and leaping into puddles.<p>

But at night, the flames of Helgen would rise up around her again, and she would awaken in a sweat, clapping her hands over her mouth to keep from screaming out loud. When the thundering of her heart eased, she would slip out of bed, tiptoeing across the room and out the door. There, in the darkness of the porch, she could weep freely, with only the cold harsh light of the moon to witness her shame.

Some nights she would curl up on the bench by the door only to dart inside the moment her tears ceased, certain that the night breeze bore the sound of a dragon's roar alongside the chill. Others, she would sit silently for hours after her eyes had gone dry, with only a single thought running through her mind.

Ulfric. In the split second in between waking and opening her eyes, she would see his face flash before her vision. Every detail had been burned into her memory with searing clarity, and she would sit frozen for a moment, blankets clutched to her chest, until she convinced herself that it was only her memory he haunted.

She didn't know if he had survived Helgen. There'd been few who had, that much was clear. No other survivors had come limping through Riverwood. But there was another route out of Helgen—the one leading to Ivarstead. And some quiet voice inside her head solemnly informed her that the Jarl was still out there.

Her various cuts and scrapes healed, her black eye faded, and her bruised ribs were slowly reaching the point where she could move about—albeit carefully—without pain. According to Hadvar, her arms were getting better as well—slowly, but with constant improvement. But as the pain dissipated, it was replaced by constant itching.

Hadvar urged her not to scratch at it, lest she tear the fragile new tissue, but in a way, it was even more agonizing than the blistering pain had been. And in attempt to keep her mind off of it, she found herself helping Alvor in the forge.

She had no training as a smith, and with her arms still healing there was little she could do in the way of heavy labor, but she still found ways to make herself useful. She prepared molds and swept the floors while listening to Alvor uncomfortably fill the silence by explaining the conventions of his trade. She learned about the properties and uses of different alloys, about proper temperatures and techniques, and, after a local store owner was robbed, about the structures and mechanisms of locks. Being a tailor's daughter also had its advantages—although it was nothing like the delicate embroidery that had covered Lady Adlen's gowns, she found she was quite adept at stitching together the seams of leather. But the roar of the forge and the hiss of molten metal still made her stomach twist with fear, and as the raised scars began to form across her arms, her thoughts slowly returned to her original purpose.

* * *

><p>It was in the wake of a nightmare one night when her usual thoughts racing on a loop through her head took a sharp turn in a new direction. As she huddled out on the porch, shivering against brisk night air, she suddenly thought of her papers. Taken from her in the Stormcloak camp, she had no idea what would become of them; whether they'd been destroyed by the Stormcloaks, abandoned during the Imperial raid, or confiscated by the Imperials and subsequently lost in Helgen's fires. But without them, she slowly realized, there'd be no making it back across the border. As a new kind of dread took hold of her, she abruptly bounded forward off the porch.<p>

She had no clear direction in mind as she set out—only that if she didn't keep moving, she would dissolve into a quivering mess of panic. But as she trudged along and her head began to clear, she slowly realized that her feet were carrying her out of Riverwood, up along the road into the mountains—back toward Helgen.

Her pace briefly slowed as she considered the direction she was headed in. It wasn't as if she were actually going back. It was too far, and besides, she'd find nothing there. Helgen was a scorched ruin; it'd been demolished by…

She shuddered as she thought of the dragon, and her panic once more began to rise. How did any of it matter? What point could there possibly be when a creature like that existed? When at any moment it could appear on the horizon and crack open the sky before doing what it did best: destroy. Devour. She shivered again, anxiously looking up at the night sky. But there were no black wings, and as she trekked on, her thoughts slowly began to align, falling into some semblance of order.

Her papers were gone, yes. So was her coin: all of it, and she felt something twist in her chest at the notion that she'd lost all of Guinevere's savings. All she had to her name were the clothes on her back, and even those weren't really hers: an old dress of Sigrid's and the Legion-issued boots she'd fled Helgen in, refitted by Alvor. But none of this changed the fact that Aventus was still in that orphanage.

It was now in the final days of Hearthfire: well over a month since she'd left Battlehorn, and nearly seven since Naalia's death. By now, Guinevere had to have realized something had gone wrong, and Monica's heart gave a twinge at the image of her mother bravely getting up in the morning and dealing with Lady Adlen's demands, all the while sobbing herself to sleep at night thinking her daughter was dead—or even worse, that she'd betrayed her, taking the money and running off with it. And as for Aventus…well, if she were Aventus, she'd have given up all hope by now.

The darkness around her had been turning to grey as she walked along lost in her thoughts, and now, she lifted her head to see three monolithic shapes rising out of the pre-dawn gloom. She slowed her gait as she approached, drifting to a stop as she stood before them. The Guardian Stones. Hadvar had pointed them out on that long ago evening as they'd staggered past them on their way to Riverwood, but she'd barely registered the sight of them at the time.

Now, she slowly made her way into their midst, stepping over roots and fallen leaves and sinking down on the frosty stone, hugging her knees to her chest. With trembling hands, she slowly pushed up her sleeve, fingers tracing the fresh scars. It was so horrifying to look at them, to carry that reminder of what had happened permanently etched into her flesh. In a way, it seemed almost a cruel joke that she should be forced to go on, to constantly relive every single agonizing moment instead of falling away in death's release. But every breath she drew was a gift, and she knew that. By all odds, she should not have survived. And as she watched the first streaks of orange slowly paint the eastern horizon, the knowledge of what lay before her was as cold as the ground she sat upon.

She had to go on. Helpless and terrified as she was, she couldn't abandon Aventus. She tilted her head back, catching sight of the last of the stars fading into the brightening sky. Her doom no longer seemed as imminent as it once had, but it was still certain. She closed her eyes, wincing at the prospect of dying alone out on the road—starving or freezing or being torn apart by animals or bandits—or being swallowed alive by black wings and fire as they rained from the sky. But as fate pushed her toward her end, she would push back. And if she was going to die, she would do so fighting for Aventus.

She slowly rose to her feet, brushing the frost from her skirt as she gazed desperately at the stones surrounding her, as though searching for some sort of sign. She was clearly no warrior; her body was weak and broken. She was no mage, either; her magicka was feeble and unstable, hardly something she could rely upon But the Thief…

She stepped forward, raising her hand to brush her fingers over the outline carved into its surface. The Thief prevailed in the most dire of circumstances, forging through insurmountable barriers while remaining unseen. Luck was the Thief's gift, and luck was what she needed most right now. "Please," she whispered, "guide my steps on this path I take." She drew in a breath, scrunching her eyes shut. "Help me get home."

* * *

><p>She stumbled back into Riverwood around mid-morning, chilled to the bone and completely soaked from the storm that had unexpectedly rolled in as she languidly made her way down the mountain. Hadvar glanced up at the sound of the door, his expression turning to one of simultaneous relief and concern as he caught sight of her. "You're back," he said, rising to his feet. "You had us worried, you know. Disappearing in the middle of the night like that?" He crossed over to the chest at the foot of Alvor and Sigrid's bed, withdrawing a heavy woolen blanket and draping it over her shoulders. "Sit down," he said, returning to the fire. "I'm making some stew, I'll get you a bowl in a few minutes."<p>

These were all familiar gestures, little acts of kindness he'd been performing since the beginning. At first, it'd been a little unnerving, but it hadn't taken long for her to decipher the motivation behind it. Hadvar was a benevolent, even-tempered soul—a fact she quickly discovered as she watched him joke with Dorthe and help Sigrid around the house and remain cheerful even when the mere act of crossing the room unaided was a monumental achievement for him. But despite all of this, the memory of the wild glint in his eye as he'd held his dagger to the torturer's throat still sent shivers down her spine. And the contrast between his typical behavior and that glaringly out of character act told her everything she needed to know. She'd been raised by a Legionnaire, after all—and she knew if Giovanni were to encounter the horrors they'd discovered in the torture room, his guilt would at least match—if not exceed—Hadvar's.

So she said nothing as he tiptoed around and fussed over every little detail of her recovery. She owed him her life, and his shame practically radiated from him every time he looked at her. If it helped him to assuage his guilt, it would be a small step toward repaying her debt.

But now, as she sat a safe distance away from the flames, watching him bustle about, there was something different about him. He'd finally been able to discard the crutch, and although his movements were slow and unsteady, he was—for all intents and purposes—officially back on his feet. He'd stopped stealing those guilty glances out of the corners of his eye, though; instead, his gaze was focused straight forward, staring through space, and he wore a small, pensive frown.

Sure enough, as he placed a steaming bowl in her hands and sat down beside her, he finally turned to her, clearing his throat. "There was something I wanted to tell you," he said. She paused, lifting her eyebrows slightly as she detected a hint of nervousness in his tone. He fidgeted briefly before speaking again.

"In a couple days, I'm going to be heading back to Solitude," he announced slowly. "I'm up and moving around again, as you can see," he gestured toward his ankle, "and, well…" He shrugged. "It's been a month," he said simply. "I've most likely been listed as dead at this point, and the longer I wait, the more likely I am to be accused of desertion." He smiled ruefully.

"But by no means are you obligated to leave," he clarified quickly. "Sigrid and Dorthe love having you around, and I know Alvor appreciates your help in the forge." He hesitated. "You know, I talked to him," he said suddenly, his words spilling out in a rush, "And he'd be willing to take you on as an apprentice."

She looked up in surprise at that one; a month ago, she might have laughed at such a ludicrous notion: her, a smith? Instead, she glanced back to the fireplace, gazing at the hypnotic dance of the flames. "You'd receive room and board in exchange for your labor, of course, as well as a percentage of the coin made from your work—not to mention the chance to work alongside a fine smith like Alvor." There was a pause. "It's a good offer."

It _was_ a good offer. And to her surprise, some small part of her almost wanted to accept. But instead, she drew in a breath and wetted her lips. "I can't."

There was a clatter as Hadvar dropped his spoon. She didn't blame him for his shock; since their arrival, she'd barely spoken three words. Slowly, she lifted her head to meet his gaze as he stared at her, astonishment written across his features. "I can't," she repeated, this time shaking her head for emphasis. "I have to get to Riften."

Hadvar appeared to be perplexed, his brow furrowed as he stared her down. "Riften," he repeated slowly. "Mind if I ask what's in Riften?" His demeanor had shifted, she realized; before, he'd spoken to her casually, with familiarity—almost as an afterthought. Now, his words were deliberate and guarded.

"My cousin," she replied shortly, cringing at the thought of having to recount the entire ugly story. But Hadvar's expression was still careful—concerned, even—without any traces of morbid curiosity creeping in, so she spoke anyway, swallowing the lump in her throat. "He's ten," she said, her voice barely a murmur. "His father disappeared not long after he was born, and his mother died this past winter. He was sent to an orphanage in Riften, so my mother sent me to go get him and bring him home."

"Home to Battlehorn?" Hadvar remarked, and she frowned, both at the fact that he'd remembered such a small, insignificant detail and at the reminder of that day in Helgen.

"Yes." She nodded her head, wondering if she should include another part of the story—the one involving her current predicament. She hesitated, but then the words came rushing out of their own accord. "But there's a problem," she blurted out. "My papers are gone."

Hadvar appeared mildly confused. "Papers?" he asked, and she felt her heart flutter as she danced closer to the other part of the story—the part she was unwilling to delve into.

"My travel papers," she replied calmly. "Documentation of my identity…my citizenship…" She shrugged, and Hadvar's perplexed expression smoothed out slightly.

"Ah," he said. "I know what you mean." But his frown returned. "What happened to them?"

His tone was surprisingly gentle, and she allowed the truth to slip out a little further.

"I don't know." For a moment, tears threatened to spill from her eyes as the memories pressed closer. "They're a pile of ash lying in Helgen now, I suppose." Her voice broke on the accursed town's name, and Hadvar instinctively shifted closer, only to freeze when she flinched at the motion.

"I see," he said. There was a hint of that stoic Legionnaire she'd first met creeping back into his voice, and he leaned away, drumming his thumbs on the arms of his chair. "Well," he said briskly, and she realized he was in full-blown Legionnaire mode now. "That shouldn't be too much of a problem—for now, at least. You can travel the province freely—go to Riften, get your cousin—whatever you need to do. However, you _will_ run into trouble when you decide to return home." His eyes narrowed at that last bit, and she forced herself to remain calm, blinking the tears back more fiercely. He wasn't telling her anything she didn't already know, she miserably reminded herself.

"They're much stricter about entering Cyrodiil," he muttered. "Leaving's easy enough; it's getting back that's the hard part." His brow wrinkled in concentration as he stared into the flames, and she nervously shifted in her seat, wondering if she should mention the means by which she'd entered Skyrim in the first place.

Finally, he broke his stare, swiveling back toward her. "There's no easy solution," he sighed. "In addition to the papers, there's the issue of coin, and it's late in the year. Travel will be difficult." He shook his head.

"Come to Whiterun with me," he suddenly offered. "I'm going to be taking a carriage to Solitude from there, and you can find one to Riften. Once you get the boy, head back to Whiterun. I'm sure you can find work there, and I'll see what I can do about your papers from Solitude. Come spring, I'm sure everything will be in order, and you and the boy can make your way back to Cyrodiil."

_Spring?_ She stared at him in disbelief. "Spring?" she repeated, the blood pounding through her ears. "That's…" She broke off with a nervous laugh. "I can't wait that long." She could hear the panic rising in her own voice, but Hadvar smiled sadly and shook his head.

"I'm sorry," he said. "But it'll take time to sort out, and besides, winter's on its way. Once it hits, you won't have many travel options. The only thing you can do is sit tight and be ready to go when the time comes." He sighed.

"I know fate hasn't been kind to you," he said suddenly, sneaking a not-so-subtle glance at her arms. Although covered by her sleeves, she instinctively drew them closer to her body as he continued. "But you're a tough one, Monica Aretino. You'll do just fine."

She silently groaned, knowing that despite it all, his solution was the only one that made sense. She couldn't go anywhere without her papers—and in the time being, she'd have to do _something_ to keep her and Aventus fed and under a roof. However, despite Hadvar's reassuring smile, she felt a knot forming in her stomach. Although the reasoning behind it was solid, she had a bad feeling about this plan—although perhaps that was the reason for her misgivings. The last time she'd had a foolproof plan in place, she thought darkly, had been when she left Battlehorn.

But this was different, she assured herself, trying to ignore the lingering prickle of worry. Last time, she'd been too foolhardy, making last minute changes and acting rashly in the face of unforeseen situations. This time, she knew better. This time, she would stay the course. And she could only pray that this time, fate wouldn't have other plans in store for her.


End file.
